A Certain Slant of Light
by Hatusu
Summary: At age fifteen, Regulus Black became the sole heir to the largest fortune in Wizarding London. At age sixteen, he joined the Death Eaters, but what price did he pay? The story of a boy who managed to defy Lord Voldemort at the height of his regime. Reg/OC
1. Colour and Sound

((**Author's Note**: I have a lot of people to thank for helping me write this story. Emily the poet, for pages of commentary. Ding, for enthusiasm. Rowling and Noldo, for inspiration. Fresca, for staying up till 4AM, for succinct honesty ("Doesn't suck."), for everything I've ever looked for in a good editor, and for understanding that I could never compose a ballad worthy of her brilliance, because I was never really much at poetry. Enjoy the story.))

* * *

**Chapter 1;** Colour and Sound

_**Quantum suicide**__: A physicist points a loaded gun at his own head and pulls the trigger. He both lives and dies. How? _

* * *

Vibrations: mechanical oscillations transpiring at an equilibrium point.

I remember vibrations, tremors lancing through the floor and the walls.

Sound. The colour grey.

I can summon up only strange fragments of that day – jagged puzzle pieces of a whole I never want to recall entirely.

Sound, in the form of screaming.

Grey, the colour of the curtains I hid my face in and the colour of the sky outside and the colour of my brother's eyes.

Who knew grey could be such a vibrant colour? Laughing, dancing, sparkling, smirking grey – those were the shades in Sirius's eyes most days. I loved grey; I always had.

Vibrations.

I sensed it from the moment my mother raised her wand at Sirius. Something about her face, the way it was warped by a strange refraction of the light, was dreadfully out of place.

Sirius turned fifteen that year, and like all teenagers, he messed up. He pulled horrible pranks, drank too much, never came home, argued with my father.

He messed up, and my mother punished him, hurling a curse here, a hex there – nothing too extreme. Once, he ended up with welts all across his back that looked like they had been inflicted with a whip; those took months to heal. That was the worst of it.

This time he had gone too far. He'd brought a Muggle-born girl to Grimmauld Place to meet my parents. I knew for a fact that he wasn't even seriously interested in the girl, just wished to show a flagrant disregard for whatever rules my mother happened to set down. My parents shooed the poor girl out of the house as if she were a dirty, stray animal, and then my mother rounded on Sirius, wand raised. What had he expected?

"How dare you . . . Mudblood . . . our _house _. . ."

Sirius merely scoffed and turned his back on her. "Oh, please, Mum. Maureen's much more tolerable than some of the filth in_ our_ family . . ."

I remember the way the light hit my brother's face as the Cruciatus Curse struck him. The grey laughter in his eyes didn't fade immediately, but remained superimposed there for a millisecond, like a bright, vibrant silhouette of what was to come. He was quiet for a moment, and then a massive convulsion racked his body, and his knees buckled.

Vibrations.

He screamed, eyes wide and oddly bright, transcendent in the strange light.

I just stood there and watched him convulse on the floor, screaming, writhing, begging. My big brother, reduced to a little boy with huge grey eyes.

Vibrations, the whole world shaking violently until I realised that it was only me, trembling like a leaf.

I just stood there, because my whole _life _had been just standing there, and sometimes I wasn't sure if I would ever be able to move again.

My mother released him from the spell, and he collapsed, heaving, unable to hold himself up.

"If you _ever_ . . ." my mother started, but her voice shook and instead of continuing, she turned on her heel and left the room. Maybe she realised she'd gone too far. Maybe.

I contemplated slipping out of the room – perhaps Sirius hadn't noticed me. I actually thought about it, leaving my brother alone in that room, unable to walk. But I knew he had seen me. There was no hiding from my own cowardice.

"Sirius," I whispered, stumbling to the scene of the crime. _That's what it is_, I reminded myself. _A crime – one punishable by law. _

I dropped to my knees beside him. "Sirius, I . . ."

Were there words worse than coward?

" . . . are you okay?"

He gave two weak, half-hearted coughs, and managed to lift himself into a sitting position. He didn't answer my question or even look at me.

I waited for the insults to start pouring out of his mouth.

_You bloody coward, _he should have said, _you're disgusting. How can you just stand there and watch as your own brother screams, begs, pleads for you to intervene? Do you know how many times I've protected you? Do you know how many times I've gotten hurt because of you, taken the blame for you? All my life, that's how long – because Mother loves you, doesn't she? And I'm the one who gets hurt because of it. _

He opened his mouth and looked up at me, disappointment scrawled like a suicide note across his face. He took a breath, as if speak, and then let it out.

"I'm fine, Reg. Just give me a minute. I'll be fine."

* * *

I have a distant memory of light.

I remember being a year old – not clearly, but like a dream, or a painting. I remember watching my mother's jeweled bracelet catch and refract the light, shrugging rich pigment onto her silken robe. If I could have asked a question, it would have been about that bracelet, and about the nature of light. I was too young to know the words for nature and bracelet, but I knew the word for light, and it fascinated me.

At the age of three, I wondered where stars came from and why sunsets were coloured differently from sunrises. My early tutors claimed I was a genius, and I didn't bother to correct them. I could solve puzzles and ace exams easily enough, but the real power of my mind lay in its curiosity. Curiosity led me straight to Muggle books – any type I could get my hands on. I could read words at age two and could understand them by three.

I exhausted Wizarding books quickly, and soon discovered that Muggle books were far more interesting. Muggle scientists explained baffling phenomena clearly, concisely, and definitively. They utilized logic in a way that wizards had rarely bothered to learn.

Light, I discovered, was more complicated than stars and rainbows and sunrises. I immersed myself in photons, electromagnetics, and quantum mechanics.

I tried and failed to comprehend the duality of light. According to Muggle scientists, light served two purposes, manifested itself in two completely different ways – wave and particle. Light had a twofold nature; this was a fact. Yet this fact contradicted three thousand years of research and philosophy. Nothing could be two things at once.

Light itself was a contradiction, an impossibility. And yet it existed; it rose in the morning and set in the evening, without fail.

I tried to get my head around it but couldn't. Light.

* * *

"This is it," I told the fourteen year-old girl beside me. One of the butlers held open the door to the manor as we stepped inside.

She smiled, and I felt my heartbeat increase. Blonde hair, light blue eyes, an upturned nose; these features characterized Adele's face. She looked pretty, standing there in her light blue robes and pleated skirt. Her thin frame and pale skin lent her the look of sickliness, but to me she was beautiful.

We had known one another since childhood, but I had never dared to bring her home. I liked Adele more than almost anyone I knew. She had inherited a rare blood disease from her mother, a disease that caused her to bruise at the slightest provocation. The smallest flesh wound triggered profuse bleeding; even a paper cut could prove detrimental to her strength. Although her health was fragile, the openness about her face never failed to delight me. She was innocent, bright, and breakable. It was as if the world hadn't touched her – as if it didn't even want to try.

I'd run through the checklist over and over again in my head: she was smart, blonde, pureblooded, rich . . . she was perfect. My parents would approve. They had no excuse not to.

She stepped inside ahead of me, and I watched her eyes go wide, luminous in the burning shadows that always seemed to characterize the inside of the manor.

"This is . . . the foyer?" she asked slowly. "I'd heard that the Black manor was big, but this . . ."

"Is ridiculous?" I finished quickly, forcing a laugh. "I know. You just get used to it after a while."

Twenty minutes later, we sat in the drawing room, and I had never felt the formality of our manor more heavily. The housekeeper's daughter, Cecilia, quietly served tea, and her presence made the formality of the situation nearly unbearable to me. In other houses we might have watched television or played a game. In my house, we merely sat while entertaining our guests. Too young to drink, too old to play, stuck staring at the beheaded house-elves mounted all along the far wall. I wasn't good at entertaining people like Sirius was.

He seemed to materialize suddenly in the doorway as if on cue. For a moment he looked almost translucent, a ghost at best. Then he solidified.

"'Lo, Reg, I just got back from . . ."

He trailed off as he realised I wasn't alone. I could tell from the rosy flush in his cheeks that he'd been with his friends, possibly drinking.

"Hey, Celie," he greeted, shamelessly draping an arm around our maid's shoulder. Grinning, he asked, "How's my favorite girl?" Sirius had a way of instantly diffusing tension inherent in any situation.

Cecilia was about three years older than him, and had been a servant in our household for as long as I could remember. Sirius was particularly fond of her. She had told us bedtime stories when we were younger, inventing entire worlds solely for the entertainment of Misters Sirius and Regulus Black.

Presently she smiled and rolled her eyes, shrugging his arm off. "Stop that, Sirius, you know how your mother hates it."

"Yes, she suspects we're having a secret affair," he drawled lazily, throwing himself onto a couch on the other side of the room. "I'm due to run away with you any day now, did you know?"

She laughed, placing a teacup on the table in front of him. "I hadn't been informed."

"Well, now you have," Sirius replied solemnly. "So, have you written any more stories? Can I read them?"

"Yes, and no, respectively," she told him brusquely. "Now unlike you, I have work to do. So, if you'll excuse me."

She slipped out of the room, grinning, tray in hand.

"I know where you keep your stories, Celie," he called after her, trying and failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. "I'll read them sooner or later!"

Satisfied, he turned to Adele and me, taking notice of her for the first time.

"Who's this?" he asked lightly, sixteen and more self-assured than anyone I'd ever met. I shivered. Another reason I'd been reluctant to bring Adele home.

"She's a friend of mine," I muttered grudgingly, putting an emphasis on friend. "Sirius, Adele. Adele . . . my brother."

He crossed the room more quickly than I believed entirely necessary.

"Adele, is it?"

He stopped, smiling his best smile down at her. He lifted her hand and kissed it softly, almost as if he sensed her fragility. "It's a pleasure. Sirius Black."

"I know," Adele said softly. She gazed up at him uncertainly. Her innocent smile was beguiling, even when it wasn't directed at me. It must have enchanted Sirius. She seemed speechless – who wouldn't be, when the great Sirius Black cast his eyes in her direction? I rolled my eyes.

"You're Reg's age, a fourth year? You seem older."

That was a lie. She looked small and young for fourteen, eyes too big for her face, like a child's. She giggled, as if he'd paid her a compliment, and I suppose he had meant it as one.

I don't know why or how so many girls fell in love with my brother; he was immature, arrogant, and treated them all the same, but they still flocked to him with an intuitive sort of desperation.

There weren't many true things I could boldly say about my brother, because he seemed, in most instances, to elude description, or perhaps transcend it. The moment I wrote him off as _angry rebel _he seemed, inexplicably, to transform before my eyes into someone mild and full of laughter, more disposed toward serenading a Professor on Valentine's day than amassing a collection of motor bikes and leather jackets. The moment I pinned him _arrogant, feckless berk, _he surprised me by doing something astoundingly brave, or articulating truth like it was simple enough for everybody to know and understand. His personality persistently contradicted itself, almost as if it were confused, and perhaps it was. He seemed, always, a little less _this _and a little more _that, _like a recipe I could never quite get right.

The only way to understand Sirius was to comprehend him as he was in the moment, without pinning down pointless specifics. He was understood best as a blur, quick and coherent in the corner of the eye, but nonsensical when you looked at him full on, like a living, breathing optical illusion. You almost had to _not _think or see or hear Sirius to catch sight of what he really was. This wasn't as hard as you'd imagine, because Sirius was constantly, naturally, and vividly in motion. He moved and movement made him beautiful; he was better, brighter, sharper in motion, as some people inexplicably are. Once you looked at him, really looked at him, there was no going back.

People he met were in awe of him – they loved him without knowing why. Girls wanted to be with him, boys wanted to _be _him. And me? I grew up in his shadow, but there was nowhere else I would rather have been.

Sirius's most endearing trait, and perhaps his most astounding, was his ability to love with a reckless abandon, love with an intensity and ease that was wholly unnerving to me. He loved hopelessly, haplessly, without boundaries or conditions, and without fear of, or perhaps concern for, rejection. He had an uncanny ability to throw himself wholeheartedly into affection. Normal people, non-Blacks, craved the kind of effortless warmth he emitted.

He could have any girl he wanted – why this one? Why the only one that had ever meant anything to me? He wouldn't hurt her, but he would discard her once he got bored with her and move on to the next willing victim. I didn't want that to happen to Adele, and yet as he stood there, I didn't move to defend her or myself.

Sirius dappled her with a charming grin and said, "Yeah, you look much older. Have you ever been to . . .?"

Something stopped him from continuing, probably the so-called conscience that his friends insisted he possessed.

He looked over at me and must have read everything on my face like an open book. Maybe he honestly hadn't realised I liked her before that moment – maybe he had.

Sirius turned back to her, and allowed himself a warm, self-effacing smile that held none of the charm or carnal effect of a few moments ago.

"It's, erm, really nice to meet you," he corrected politely.

"You too," she replied, as the star-struck expression wore off little by little.

He stepped back from her, a small flush infused on his cheeks.

"Well. You kids have fun," Sirius said, by way of farewell, and emphasized 'kids' as if his life depended on it.

* * *

Sirius had always been highly flammable, reckless to an extreme degree, but it wasn't until I was fifteen, during the winter holidays, that I truly began to fear for his life.

For one, I thought my mother might kill him outright.

Christmas day arrived. We'd each been allowed to invite one person for Christmas dinner, which was set for three o'clock in the afternoon.

Sirius, of course, had chosen to invite James Potter. I had chosen Adele.

The day started off optimistically. Sirius and James entered the drawing room wearing green and red knit jumpers respectively. Sirius seemed happy to have James with him; they were planning to have Christmas pudding at James's house afterward.

"Hey, kid." Sirius greeted Adele warmly, with a large smile. They'd been on good terms for about six months now, although Sirius had scrupulously maintained his distance.

"Nice to see you, Sirius," she replied. She looked beautiful in silver robes, hair swept into a bun that made her look marginally taller. "Who's your friend?"

"James Potter," supplied the Gryffindor, and stuck out his hand with a cheeky smile. He nodded curtly at me in greeting; we had never gotten on well, but he seemed all too eager to be polite to my girlfriend. "Should I address you as 'kid' too or are you going to give me a name?"

She raised her eyebrows in pleasant surprise. "Adele."

Sirius poured himself a glass of wine (James pointedly declined) and the four of us spent the better part of an hour talking freely. James and I, who usually only traded sarcastic quips, tried to keep them to a minimum for the sake of Christmas cheer. The atmosphere in the drawing room hadn't been this relaxed in a long time. That, of course, was shattered by the arrival of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Lucius strolled into the drawing room as if he undoubtedly _owned _the place. He surveyed the room casually, and his lips twisted in disdain as his eyes came to rest on James Potter.

Narcissa, on the other hand, seemed generally happy to see us, or as happy as a woman made of ice could ever be. The corner of her mouth twisted up; her eyes seemed a little brighter. That was all. It was enough.

"I see my two youngest cousins are doing as well as ever – growing taller and more obnoxious every time I see them," she commented wryly.

"You're not looking so bad yourself, Cissa," Sirius replied loudly. Lucius's eyes flashed at the ridiculous nickname. "Is your husband treating you all right, like he promised?"

Lucius's fingers were interlaced with Narcissa's and he shifted slightly, so that his body was in front of hers, in what could only be interpreted as a protective gesture. "It's a pleasure as _always, _Sirius," Lucius drawled sarcastically. Then, more gravely, "Remind me that we need to talk later. In private."

His steely grey eyes were so unlike my brother's that I had a hard time believing they were even the same colour.

"Somehow I have a feeling I know exactly what you're going to say. A big-brother type of speech, right? Upholding family values and all that rot? I'll pass, thanks," Sirius deferred with elaborate casualness.

I jumped up and jerked Sirius to the side; Lucius was smirking darkly, shooting occasional glances at James Potter, whom he disliked on principle.

"Jesus, Sirius," I snapped harshly, lowering my voice. "Can you go for one second without antagonizing five different family members? Just lay off, okay? It's Christmas."

"I just don't understand why Cissa married that bloody prat," Sirius grumbled. To his credit, he looked slightly repentant. "Alright, Mum, I'll be nicer. I promise."

The tension in the room mounted higher as Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange arrived.

"Regulus," Bellatrix crooned, ruffling my hair. "My baby cousin's all grown up." She grinned wickedly and I swatted her hand away, rolling my eyes. "And Sirius, you traitorous Gryffindor lout." She fondly ruffled his hair too, although he was taller than her. "I've heard about your antics lately. You are far too self-righteous for your own good; we're going to have to rectify that situation immediately. What am I going to have to do to corrupt you, little cous?"

Sirius, grinning despite himself, gave her a quick hug. "Aw, shut it, Bella. None of this recruiting stuff tonight, all right?"

Bellatrix and Rodolphus weren't so subtle in their disapproval of James Potter. They knew that his father was a key Ministry official deeply set against Lord Voldemort's regime. James himself had begun to display leanings in the same direction. Though neither he nor I knew it at the time, there was a price on his father's head. Needless to say, I was relieved when my mother called us all to the dining room for dinner.

The dining hall exuded not one bit of holiday cheer, despite the elaborate decorations. Somber holly leaves lined the mantles, while low embers burned in the two adjacent fireplaces. Red and green candles had replaced the brown ones, the chandelier draped in hideous red velvet that must have been at least five hundred years old.

Sirius took one look at the chandelier and whispered something to James that made him stifle a snort.

Dinner commenced, and the discussion ranged from Narcissa's upcoming New Year's Ball to troubles at the Ministry, but hovered mercifully away from controversial topics.

That was, until the wine started flowing. Admittedly, Sirius drank more than everyone. It had fast become a habit of his.

"Sirius," I muttered in an undertone, after he'd consumed his fifth glass. "Stop drinking, mate – I'm not kidding. Give it a rest, just this once."

James Potter, for the first time in recorded history, agreed with me.

Sirius laughed us off. "No worries, gentlemen – I can hold a lot more liquor than you think."

It troubled me that he was right. Five glasses of wine had barely affected his speech and actions. He only seemed to smile more easily and talk more freely.

"Have you heard about the newest round of ridiculous legislation they're trying to pass at the Ministry?" Rodolphus piped up. "Something about equal working wages for half-breeds. Can you imagine? Werewolves and giants receiving the same salary as pure-bloods? Next thing you know the filth will be allowed jobs at the Ministry, or, Merlin forbid, the schools!"

Sirius lowered his fork with deliberate control. It would have seemed like a casual gesture to anyone else, but I knew it meant he was furious. James's face darkened, but neither of them said a word. Adele, in an attempt to diffuse tension, smiled primly and opened her mouth in an effort to change the subject.

"Speaking of legislation at the Ministry, I was talking to Ted Tonks the other day about an internship at the Department of Education, perhaps to one of the school governors . . . he's, erm, your brother-in-law, correct?"

She had faltered because the guests had gone silent, staring at her with unabashed disbelief. Narcissa, in a semblance at cultured politeness, demurred, "So unfortunate that you should bring him up. Andromeda Tonks is no longer considered a –"

"We don't speak that name in this household," my mother cut her off savagely, puce in the face. My father put a calming arm on her shoulder but she shrugged him off, apoplectic with rage.

Adele flushed and looked down at her barely touched plate, trembling with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I had no idea–"

"Don't worry about it," Sirius injected, dappling her with a reassuring smile. Immediately, she seemed at ease. His smile could do that to people. "It's not a big deal, really. At least, it shouldn't be, since she _is_ our cousin. I actually just got a letter–"

"Yeah," I exclaimed over him, before he dug himself a deeper hole. I squeezed Adele's shoulder lightly. "Point is, you didn't know, so no harm done, right?" I smiled tightly at Sirius. My mother was glaring openly, but Sirius firmly smiled down at his dinner plate, purposely avoiding her gaze.

The conversation only got worse, though – a tirade of Muggle bashing ensued, and my brother seemed to grow steadily more annoyed. Finally, very calmly, he said, "I don't agree, Lucius. I think Muggle-borns are just as capable of being magical anthropologists as Wizards. One of my best friends is a half-blood and he's more knowledgeable about wizarding culture than I'll ever be."

Everyone stopped eating. Their eyes flew to Sirius. There it was, out in the open, literally laid out on the table in front of some of the most dangerous pure-bloods in London. _One of my best friends is half-blood . . ._

Lucius made a sound of clear disgust, and my mother spoke up, apparently quite flustered.

"Please, excuse my son, you know how teenagers can be . . . confused about morals and the like. They always come around in the end . . ."

"I understand completely, Walburga," Lucius assured her, but his scathing glance at Sirius alleged otherwise.

"Sirius, you are forbidden from speaking for the rest of the meal," my mother dictated calmly, without so much as looking at him.

"What? You can't–"

"Sirius," my father cut him off. I was startled at hearing his voice at all; he was a man of very few words. "Listen to your mother or leave the table."

My brother's eyes widened at that. He dealt regularly with Mother's abuse, but coming from his father, it meant something else entirely. For a moment I thought he would get up, but he merely flushed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe. Lucius smirked.

The rest of the evening seemed designed to provoke Sirius out of his silence.

"And the fact that Anita Wilson's been fired from her post! One of the most prominent Muggle-borns in the community, blackmailed from the Ministry . . . what do you think, Regulus?"

Bellatrix turned on me with sharp eyes, and the rest of the table followed her lead. My mouth went dry. I chanced a glance at Sirius, the only person who wasn't looking at me, expectant for an answer.

"I . . . well . . ."

"Yes?"

"She was a good head of Muggle Relations, but I think that branch of the government is somewhat useless anyway."

Lucius reached over and squeezed my shoulder "Good man, Regulus. I agree wholeheartedly. Though, Mr. Potter, I believe your father was one of the few who voted against her removal from office?"

"That's right," James answered, a touch of defiance in his voice.

Lucius smirked slightly. "From what I hear, your father hasn't been performing . . . _quite_ up to standard in his own department. His vote meant little to the outcome, possibly nothing."

Sirius's head snapped up, but he didn't speak.

"My father does his job just fine, thanks," James replied coldly. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't attack my family at the dinner table; it's rather impolite, don't you think?"

The older man's eyes flashed. "You'd do well to watch what you say, Mr. Potter, or you may find that a verbal attack is the least of your immediate concerns."

"Was that a threat?" James asked quietly.

"No. It was a warning," Lucius replied. "Consider this conversation a favor from one pure-blood family to another, Mr. Potter. I aim to save you and your family a lot of grief in the upcoming months."

"Do you?" James bit out sarcastically.

"Sincerely," Lucius assured him.

A few minutes later, a tipsy Bellatrix said, "Have you heard about the Ministry-approved study taking place right now? Some scientists have been observing Muggles in their natural habitats, and have documented both their human-like and animalistic characteristics."

My mother joined in primly, and commenced in speaking as if she were talking about what colours to paint the dining room walls. "I've heard about that. Fascinating, don't you think? The researchers have apparently amassed a large amount of evidence pointing toward animalistic tendencies in Muggles. Imagine that."

James lost grip on his dinner fork in shock at the crude assertion, and his glasses slipped down his nose as he bent to pick it up. Unlike my brother, who had years of practice, he lacked the ability to control his temperament. I could read his face like an open book. He was, however, too polite to speak up. Sirius kept his head down throughout the entire conversation, unruly hair obscuring his face. He toyed idly with the base of his wineglass, twirling it between his fingers.

"Imagine, a pure-blood mating with a Mudblood," Bellatrix slurred. "How must it feel to fuck a mutant? And the child, would it be half animal, half human? I'd like to see the–"

"Oh, _shut up_, Bella."

The table fell dead silent.

"Sirius?"

"Bugger it all. What's wrong with you lot? I've had enough of this!"

He brought the wineglass down on the table with undue force. It shattered, crimson glinting off of gold in the dim light. I flinched.

"Sirius," I started, "please be quiet . . ."

Sirius looked at me, eyes momentarily reflecting vulnerability, or perhaps disappointment.

"Pipe down, Reg," he spat simply, without malice, and then moved back into uncontrolled rage. That was that.

"Sirius Black, sit down!" my mother ordered, voice more dangerous than I'd ever heard it.

"I won't," he told her plainly. "I won't listen to any more of this rubbish. That's what it is, it's rubbish, every word it!"

James stood up abruptly. His chair scraped back and the sound pealed off of the walls, echoing throughout the hollow room. He turned to my mother, and I saw momentarily the tremor in his hands that he tried very hard to hide. "Thank you for the dinner and the invitation, Mrs. Black. I wish I could say it's been a pleasure." Then, much lower, "I'm sorry, Sirius," without even glancing at the future Black heir, and no one knew what he was apologizing for but clearly it shouldn't have been him.

Sirius's face transformed, anguish and indecision like I'd never seen from him. My brother was the most easy-going person I had ever met. He laughed his problems off most of the time, seldom succumbing to angst or foul temper. But when he got angry, it was bloodcurdling.

"Sirius Black, if you follow that boy out of this room, you're never allowed under this roof again."

James looked at Sirius, who wouldn't look back, and then turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

I was terrified, terrified that my brother would leave and never come back. Adele sat stiff, unmoving, at my side. Tension had always upset her. She looked even more fragile than usual, like she could barely hold herself up.

I saw the uncertainty on Sirius's face, the panic that flitted into his eyes at being presented with the one ultimatum he couldn't resolve. I saw the suspension, indecision held at its highest point, both choices holding exactly the same weight. For one moment, he was perfectly balanced between the two; the tug-of-war came to a standstill.

And then he tipped. He sat back down. Brought his hands up to his face, probably so that he wouldn't see the astonished look on James's face; no accusation, just outright surprise, and that was worse.

"Good day, Mr. Potter," Lucius Malfoy crowed triumphantly, and nodded cordially to the other man.

James disappeared around the corner, leaving only an imprint of disappointment and incredulity in his wake.

A few moments of silence passed.

"You did right, Sirius," Bellatrix commended finally, gracing him with a sharp smile.

Narcissa, in an epic effort to lighten the mood, raised her glass and said, "To Sirius, youngest heir of the Black family. May he continue to make us all proud."

Everyone could agree with this, at least, and they all shared a toast to my brother.

Sirius hastily repaired his wineglass and filled it to the brim.

After the guests had departed, my mother called him to her study.

_Inappropriate. Inexcusable. Insolent. Embarrassment._

Those were the only words I could hear, shouted loudly as they were. And then, the unmistakable sound of my brother's voice sounding through the floorboards, just as angry and just as audible.

Then silence.

He emerged five minutes later, face so white I thought he might faint on the spot.

"Are you all right?"

It was a stupid question, a silly one; it needed to be asked.

"I'll be fine in a minute," was his simple, standard reply, which meant _no, I'm not all right, I'm bleeding and I can't stop, _though I didn't know he meant it literally until a few days later, when I saw the welts all across his back, red and angry even then.

To be perfectly fair, Sirius didn't exactly fit the mould of the helpless, abused child. Nearly seventeen, he towered over my stout mother and was probably the better duelist between the two of them. He could have hexed her, he could have outrun her, he could have picked her up and set her aside with one arm, but he never did.

"Why did you invite James here?"

The tiniest smile twisted his lips. "Because apparently I overestimated the courtesy of the Black family," which meant, _because he's my best friend and I wanted you all to like him more than almost anything. _

"I like him just fine," I lied, translated to _I'm not like them, I swear. _

"I know," which meant, _I'm not sure, but I hope so. _

He leaned against the wall for support and winced as his back touched the stone.

"Hey, you want to go flying tomorrow? Practice for Quidditch season?" I asked, which was, _maybe I don't exactly know how to say it right now, but thank you for staying and I don't know what I'd do if you left. _

He grinned in earnest this time. "If you don't mind getting your arse kicked."

"In your dreams," I retorted, which meant, _no, I don't mind one bit. _

* * *

_Nothing in the universe can travel at the speed of light, they say, forgetful of the shadow's speed. –_Howard Nemerov


	2. Duality of Light

((**A.N. **Some of you asked about my other WIP, Somewhere I Have Never Traveled. To all of you, I say don't worry, the rest of that story will eventually be posted. It's just a matter of when. I'll stop typing, before I incriminate myself further Enjoy this chapter..:D))

**Chapter 2;** Duality of Light

On New Year's Eve, it became clear to me that Sirius was falling apart.

"Jell-O shots!"

The group of young men in my line of vision simultaneously downed magically suspended Jell-O shots. How many had that been? I'd lost track.

The party was huge. Students from all four Houses attended alongside graduated students, mixed in with a few younger adults. The host was Norman Irving, a genial ex-Hufflepuff who flew for the Chudley Canons. He also happened to be a pure-blood, so my mother had readily accepted our request to attend his party. However, she had agreed on the condition that Sirius and I have dinner at Grimmuald Place before we departed. I had hastily accepted for both of us ("Of course, Mum!") before Sirius could open his mouth with some uncouth reply.

When dinner did commence (house-elves unveiled platters of sumptuous food, silverware glinting in the muted light), the silence between the four of us became extraordinarily strained, aside from my mother's occasional order to a servant. I thought about opening my mouth, attempting conversation, but I likened it silently to firing the first accidental shot into the no-man's land between two warring armies. Suicide.

My father's fork clinked too loudly on his plate as he cleared his throat. "Didn't you get your O.W.L scores back yet?" he addressed Sirius baldly.

My brother shrugged, the picture of indifference. "Yeah, a long time ago."

"And you didn't tell us," my mother barked, pausing to take a hefty sip of wine. "Because they're so low, I expect. I've never seen you crack open a book. In my fifth year at Hogwarts, I earned eight O., third highest-scoring female in Slytherin's fifth year, but from you I wouldn't expect–"

"Eleven," he cut her off flatly, setting down his fork.

I almost choked on a piece of meat. "_Eleven_?"

He nodded. My father looked mildly surprised and pleased, while my mother's face had contorted with blatant shock.

I decided to throw him the bone he so obviously needed. "Blimey, Sirius. You must be top of your class."

"Second, actually," he corrected, toying idly with his fork.

"Very good, son," my father said stiffly. He reached out and squeezed Sirius's shoulder in an awkward manner. Sirius's smile was ever-so-slight, but warmer than I'd seen in a long time.

"Who beat you?" my mother asked curiously. "James Potter? He's quite bright, I hear."

"Lily Evans," Sirius answered automatically. His cheek twitched ever so slightly as he said it.

"Evans . . ." my mother mused. "I don't know that name."

I felt my whole body tense; this wouldn't end well.

"You wouldn't. She's Muggle-born."

"A Mudblood beat you." My mother's voice was rank, flattened by disapproval and sarcasm.

"Yeah, she did," Sirius countered calmly, leaning back in his chair. "She beat everyone. She's a right genius, and the best witch in our year, too."

"What am I to expect of you, Sirius? You disgrace the Black surname, made to look inferior by some ordinary Mudblood girl. What will I tell our acquaintances? You've had the best upbringing, the best schooling, the best of everything. Your brother has never let a lowbrow commoner outperform him, and I won't have it–"

Before she could get warmed up, Sirius smiled ruefully, eyes flicking toward me. "You're right, Mum. You have Regulus here as your token pure-blood son. Second time's the charm, isn't that right?"

"It is too much to ask that we enjoy this meal? It's New Year's Eve, for pity's sake," my father attempted valiantly.

My mother's lips thinned. "What am I going to do with you, Sirius?" She closed her eyes briefly, massaging her forehead with two fingers. "I'm not sure how much more disappointment I can handle."

The words hung there, supported only by the latent tension between them, strung up like electric wires around the room.

I fully expected Sirius to make a cutting, sarcastic remark, or blow up, which was rarer but not entirely out of the question. Instead he raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, without sarcasm, "I'm sorry, Mum."

He had escaped from the dining room before she could utter another word.

"If you'll excuse me?" I asked beseechingly, looking to my parents.

"Go on, son," my father said softly, before my mother could open her mouth to protest. I hurried out of the dining room, and found Sirius where I knew he would be, on the balcony of the upstairs ballroom.

The cold bit into my skin as I approached cautiously. "Merlin, it's freezing," I remarked, mostly to announce my presence. He didn't seem affected at all by the bitter wind. His face lacked the usual vivacity, expression blank and far away.

He didn't hesitate. "I'm sorry about that, Reg."

I leaned back against the railing of the balcony, careful not to look at him. "You've got to be kidding me. You really think I'm their favourite?"

He sighed, resigned and a little amused, but entirely devoid of bitterness. "You can do no wrong in their eyes."

"If I pulled half the stunts you did, they would have disowned me a long time ago," I pointed out. "Father brags about you all the time; Mum makes every excuse in the world to her friends about your behavior. You've always been their favourite."

I could tell by his expression that he didn't believe me. He was silent for a few more moments, eyes vacant as he looked down upon the estate that he would one day inherit. Then his face split into a genuine, impulsive grin. "Who cares, anyhow? Let's get the hell out of here."

My brother's good humour was incredibly resilient. I envied him for that, if nothing else.

"I have to wash up, get dressed," I told him, nodding toward my room.

"I'll meet you there, then," he persisted, smiling in earnest now. "You _will _come, won't you? This party's going to be ace."

I rolled my eyes. "I'll show up, I guess."

"I know you hate parties, but–"

"I'll be there, okay? Don't worry." I smiled wryly as he nodded, and watched him Disapparate on the spot.

By the time I arrived, the party was already in full swing. Despite the fact that various kinds of people attended, they all seemed to know and like my brother.

He and his friends had arrived with a literal bang, sporting ridiculous colour-changing top hats and coats that moved rapidly from lime green to delirious pink to violent orange to various other offensive colours.

Presently he looked like some kind of king, his arm wrapped around a pretty girl, situated on a large, plush sofa. A group of people surrounded him: James, talking to Lily Evans with the kind of intensity that told me he wouldn't stop if the roof came crashing down; Remus Lupin, having a discussion with a group of serious looking Ravenclaws; everyone else, fixed on Sirius. My brother sipped his drink, completely unperturbed by the fifteen or so sets of eyes directed toward him. He seemed to be in the middle of delivering an elaborate story or joke of some sort. He held his audience enraptured, whatever it was.

Sirius smiled and laughed so easily. The colour was high in his cheeks, and he seemed healthier and happier than I'd ever seen him. He radiated charm, humour, and a certain disregard for anything too solemn.

He finished the story, bringing the house down with laughter and general appreciation. A guy punched him on the shoulder. A girl, quite obviously drunk, jumped into his lap playfully and threw her arms around his neck. He just laughed and kissed her neck before pushing her off in a way that seemed both casual and well-mannered.

By all appearances, Sirius Black was living the high life of the richest, most charming heir in all of London. The more strained his relationship with his family became, the better he seemed to hide it. No one saw the lacework of scars on his back that clearly mapped out internal turmoil and a problem more serious than he was willing to acknowledge. The more miserable, torn, angry, rebellious he acted while no one was watching, the more charming and humorous he appeared in public. He spiraled completely out of control, and only seemed to be growing happier and rowdier. It was as if his very substance was diminishing, and the only way he could think to make up for it was to surrender himself completely to partying.

At two or three in the morning, I looked up to see James Potter standing before me. I could tell he disliked talking to me by the uncharacteristic sour twist of his lips.

"Your brother's completely sloshed," James said simply, rolling his eyes. "I don't think he can even Apparate himself. Would you make sure he gets home all right? I'd do it myself, but the ridiculous anti-Apparition wards on your property kind of prevent me."

It was a good excuse, but James probably just didn't want to leave his precious Lily Evans for more than a few moments. I grimaced.

"I was just about to leave, actually. Where is he?" I asked.

"Not sure," James admitted. "I was just going to look for him."

"I'll come," I opted, and let go of Adele's hand reluctantly. "I'll see you tomorrow, all right? Dinner at my house again?" I joked darkly, smiling down at her. "Or not."

"Aw, but last time was so much fun," she quipped sarcastically. "Your mum almost exploded over the Christmas pie, and I'm pretty sure Sirius was about to start chucking dinner plates at her head. How about not."

"Agreed. Definitely your house," I replied gratefully.

"Uh, Black? Hurry the hell up, I don't have all night to watch you flirt with your girlfriend," James snapped irritably. "No goodbye kiss or anything, my gag reflex is already starting to kick in."

I raised my eyebrows at Adele. "Bye, I guess." I kissed her lightly on the forehead.

We traipsed out of the main room and into the quieter hallway.

"Any idea where he'd be?" I asked.

"The bedrooms," James answered wryly. "Let's check those first."

We climbed the stairs and started looking in the bedrooms. Some of them were empty, while some were clearly occupied. We closed those doors quickly and moved on. Finally James opened a door and turned to me, exasperated. "He's in here."

I heard a giggle and a distinct thump. "I'm not going in there. There's no way," I asserted quickly. The mere thought grossed me out horribly.

"Wimp," James said succinctly, before plunging bravely into the room. No wonder he was a Gryffindor. He emerged several seconds later, dragging a protesting Sirius by the collar.

A blonde girl followed shortly, hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned.

"Bloody hell, Prongs, let go of me. Go away! Me and Elena were–"

"Macy," she corrected quickly.

"Macy, that's what I meant," Sirius slurred, and swayed slightly.

"Who are you to intrude like this?" the girl, whatever her name was, asked, glaring at James. "We were obviously in the middle of something."

"Yeah, me and Marcy were–"

"Macy," she corrected again, helpfully.

"Whatever your _name_ is," Sirius retorted, gesturing vaguely in her direction. "We were busy. Sod off, Prongs."

James looked from the girl to Sirius and laughed softly. It didn't sound sincere.

He addressed 'Macy,' "Go home, all right? Can't you see he's completely sloshed? He doesn't even know your name_, _for Merlin's sake – he's not even going to remember you in the morning."

"Sirius and I have something special," she defended, full of conviction. "Don't mock us."

James muttered something that sounded like "un-be-freaking-lieveable" under his breath, and then said, "You're drunk. At least, I hope you're drunk. Go home and, er, reevaluate your own self-worth or something."

She huffed, but with a murmured goodbye to Sirius, turned and left.

"She has the nicest arse," Sirius remarked loudly, eyes fixed on her retreating figure. He didn't bother to keep his voice down. Then, "What gives, Prongs? What the bloody hell . . . oh, 'lo Reg. Didn't see you there."

I nodded in greeting, smirking slightly.

"Listen, mate," James started, "I'm all for getting loads of beautiful girls to sleep with you and whatnot, but this is the third one in five days."

"It certainly is _not_," Sirius replied indignantly. "You've left out that threesome in the bathroom stall, it's actually been five–"

"Don't you think this is a little ridiculous?" James reasoned, stifling a grin. "C'mon, Padfoot, there's a difference between playing the field and taking advantage of girls with your infinite amounts of money and astoundingly good looks."

"You've got it all wrong, mate. I'm not taking advantage of them, I swear – that one girl handcuffed to the bed, I assure you it was her idea entirely–"

"Sirius, shut up," James snapped, irritation winning out over amusement. "Stop joking, I'm actually not kidding."

"Since when did you become such a _girl_?" Sirius lilted scornfully. "You're no fun anymore, Prongs, ever since you deserted us for Evans. Where'd my best mate go, the one that liked pulling pranks and having fun?"

"He's right here," James answered quietly, dangerously. "Right here watching as you fall farther and farther into a place I'm not going to be able to get you out of."

Sirius scoffed. "Talk to me when you're not going to be ridiculously melodramatic, mate."

"Potter's right," I piped up. "You drink too much. It's not healthy."

"It's _New Years_," Sirius replied with some amount of exasperation.

"You drink almost every night," James pointed out sternly.

"I have a high tolerance for liquor," he deferred with an elegant shrug.

"There's a word we have for that. It's _alcoholic_," I replied ruthlessly.

"Is that what you think I am?" Sirius asked, amused and carefree.

"It's what I'm afraid you're going to become if this bullshit with your family keeps up," James remarked.

"Hey, screw you," Sirius slurred at James. "You don't know a thing about my family, so lay off."

James paled, awkward and unsure of himself for the first time I remembered. Anger radiated from Sirius, something feral and completely atypical. When James spoke it was tentative, like trying to cajole a rabid dog.

"I know that they practice bloody Dark Arts and support a man who tortures and kills Muggles for a hobby. I know that you – you sleep on your stomach because the open wounds on your back are still fresh. I know that not one of them deserves your defence, but you defend them anyway because you love them in a way that they're incapable of."

"Hey, that's not true," I countered, anger and dislike giving me the courage to speak. "We don't have a perfect family, but it's not – not like you say. Like we're monsters."

"No, trust me. You lot are. I'm not sure how Sirius escaped the rampant inbreeding–"

"Take that back," I threatened.

"Not when it's the truth."

I lunged at him. The prospect of pummeling him with my bare fists was somehow more appealing than hurling a curse.

He dodged my blow easily and slammed me hard against the wall.

I struggled there, helpless. "You've got a lot to learn, kid," James spat, grinning sharply. "Pathetic. You're really a pathetic excuse for a brother. Sirius has never told you that, has he? He's too nice, but he should've said it a long time ago. Pathetic, and a coward to boot. After everything he's done for you, you just–"

"Shut up!" I cried, because I couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say, genius or otherwise.

"I'm more of a brother to him than you'll ever be," James hissed, softly and deliberately, "and he knows that."

"Stop it!"

Sirius's voice made us both turn around. He stood there, trembling vaguely, watching two people he loved rip out each other's throats. I realised belatedly that this was it; this was what screwed him up so badly. He was never able to escape the war. It tore him apart because the battlefield ran right through his heart, because the straight line was in reality a pathetic squiggle that turned black and white to gray, love and hate to something pernicious and cannibalistic.

I caught James's eyes. _Truce, _they said, _not because I like you, but because we both love him._

He let go of me roughly. "I can't deal with this anymore," James snapped, aware as I that we'd made a mistake. "Talk to me when you're sober," he muttered to Sirius before turning away. "Though Merlin knows when _that_ will be."

He left without another word.

"We're going home," I said wearily. I felt more tired than I'd ever been. "Come on, I'll Apparate."

"No, I can do it myself," Sirius argued.

"You couldn't even walk ten metres," I pointed out scornfully, and gripped his arm. "You'll Splinch yourself."

"But Reg, you don't even have your–"

He was cut off rudely as the Apparition began. We landed neatly in the foyer of Grimmuald Place.

– license."

"Yeah, well . . ." I shrugged it off. Didn't tell him that I'd been Apparating on my own since thirteen. "C'mon."

I led the way up the stairs, pausing every so often to let my older brother catch up with me. Eventually he sped up, and we both stopped at the door to his room. He looked sad and faded, a ghost compared to who he was in public.

"Do you need me to tuck you into bed, or are you going to be all right from here?" I asked sarcastically, in an effort to lighten the mood.

"Shut up," he ordered severely, smiling involuntarily. Then his whole face seemed to close down, sadder and farther away than before. "Hey Reg, do something for me."

"Yeah?"

"Don't turn out anything like I did."

This, coming from the older brother I'd idolized all my life. I'd only ever wanted to be exactly like him.

I swallowed. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

He smiled, and turned the knob to his door. "Good. See you tomorrow, then."

But when I woke up in the morning, he was gone.

To all eyes, I appeared perfect. Regulus Black, everything his brother wasn't brave enough or strong enough to be. I _hated _that; I hated their ruthless insults and relentless critiques of my brother. It didn't matter that they were right.

_Seventeen, and such a taste for alcohol_, they'd say_. He's bound to become an alcoholic_. They had no idea.

_Quite the ladies man_, they'd whisper. _We_ _won't let _our_daughter anywhere near him_. They didn't know that their daughter had already been all over him.

_Insolent cad_, or some ruder term, often came out of their mouths right in front of me. _Disgraced his family and wasted his brilliance; he'll end up on the streets, no doubt about it._

_Nothing, _they'd say_, like Regulus Black_, as if my name was hallowed or sacred. _You know, the younger Black heir; eyes like cobalt, dark hair, better-looking than Sirius as well. He's a genius in school, top of his class. Quiet, such a contrast to his loudmouth brother, obedient and has all the right values. Exemplary pure-blood youth; helps out in the community and a good son too. Wish he was my boy. My daughter's his age, give or take five years . . ._

Nothing like his brother. Not even close.

And that killed me.

It seemed to compromise my identity in the Black household. Being _not_ my brother was all I could ever hope to amount to.

All my life I'd looked to Sirius for how to act, what to say, who to be. My parents had encouraged it, for a while.

Now he was gone, and I was tired of being _not _my brother. I wanted to be unique, entirely different, a son my parents could be proud of. The pressure to be the perfect Black heir passed from him to me. For the first time, I felt what Sirius must have felt his whole life.

My parents started making me attend parties ("I will not tolerate having a recluse for a son."), even though I hated them in theory: bright lights, loud noises, drunken revelry, and pure stupidity. Exactly the kind of thing Sirius loved. Grudgingly, I admitted that parties hadn't been so bad when he had come along.

Girls threw themselves at me, which was practically as pitiful as it was disgusting. They had some strange fascination with the younger Black brother; the quieter of the two, but that just made him more mysterious. Apparently one of the most heated debates among girls at Hogwarts centreed around which of the two Black brothers was better looking.

Sirius and I had had a good laugh when we'd heard about that. Now the thought of his laughter just made me feel hollow.

Adele was the only girl I tolerated. At least she didn't laugh at jokes that weren't funny or dumb herself down for me. If I did something wrong she pointed it out, and if I made excuses, she saw right through them. She was the only one.

"Catch," sounded a female voice from behind me, at one of the aforementioned parties. I turned around in time to find something large and red hurtling toward my face. I caught it just in time and focused on the person who'd thrown it.

"What's this?" I asked Bellatrix with an amused smile. Another female who didn't annoy the hell out of me – my cousin.

"It's called a Remembrall. They're the latest invention, cous. Not even sold in stores yet."

"How'd you get it?"

She winked and sat down next to me. "I know the right people."

Bellatrix seemed changed from when I'd last seen her. At twenty-three, she was at the height of her beauty. Smoky black eyes, sharp cheekbones, rich olive skin, and long, flowing dark hair all accentuated her inherent allure. Her red dress was tight and short to match her robes, and heels clicked rapidly on the floor as she approached. I could see why men called her a seductress.

But then, also, I saw what those men had failed to see. What first appeared to be thinness was actually gauntness barely kept at bay. A faint bluish tinge around her eyelids clearly denoted lack of sleep, and the light in her eyes was too bright. Flame-like, it ate away at what substance she still retained.

"I heard about your brother," she offered, warm shadows playing across the planes of her face.

"Yeah," was all I could manage, because I still couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to say about it.

"It's a shame," Bellatrix murmured. I sensed her remorse. It was evident in the tightness of her mouth, the way her hands wouldn't stay still. She seemed like the only one who felt sorry that Sirius had left besides me. "He could've been great."

I wanted to say, he _is _great, better and stronger than I'll ever be and the rest of the world has it all backwards. But instead, "Yeah, he could've been."

Because I was a coward; because the worst part of me was happy that she finally liked me better than him.

"I'll hate to kill him," she mused sorrowfully. My whole body tensed up. Had I misheard?

"What?"

"Blood traitors will be the first to die," Bellatrix elaborated. "There is nothing more lowly than a blood traitor in Lord Voldemort's eyes. And take my word for it, cous. He _will _start killing."

"He's already been killing," I pointed out, recalling articles in the newspaper about his victims, about some Muggle-born or another dead.

Bellatrix laughed, and there was something broken in it. "You think this is killing? I'm not sure you understand, little cous. Lord Voldemort already puppets half the Ministry, and the other half is so scared they'll do anything he says. You think_ this _is killing? He gains power every day and soon there will come a time when no one is foolish enough to oppose him – then he plans a systematic extermination. The killing hasn't even begun yet."

Bellatrix leaned forward, a half-crazed grin playing at her lips. "Do you have any idea what kind of bounty there is on your brother's head? He's an Order member and a blood traitor – he won't live out the month."

I nodded shakily, and wondered if my brother had any idea what he'd done.

"I've been meaning to talk to you for a while," Bellatrix pressed on. "You see . . . I think it's time you joined his ranks."

"I . . . what do you mean?"

She leaned back and smiled slowly at me before elaborating.

"He's coming to power, and it's a good political move for you and your family. Any self-respecting pure-blood heir would do it – especially you. It will erase whatever small blemish Sirius brought to the Black name and it will ensure your family's allegiance. And Regulus," she paused there, eyes more wild than I'd ever seen them, "you'll never meet a man more fit to rule our society. He is_ brilliant_. There's just something . . . I can't explain it. But when you meet him, you will know. He is the greatest wizard who ever lived, that much I'm sure of. You will not be sorry."

I took a deep breath. "But I've heard . . . I've heard awful things . . . torture and massacres . . . don't get me wrong, Bella, I don't have any love in my heart for the Muggle race, but I don't think I could . . ."

"No, no, no, you misunderstand me," Bellatrix crooned. "Voldemort does not force his followers to go on missions – nothing so barbaric as that."

I thought for a moment in silence.

"Regulus," her voice had dropped to a seductive whisper, "it's no secret that you're smart. Long has the Dark Lord searched for a follower with your intelligence . . . he's had his eye on you since you were young. If you joined his ranks, he would help you realize your full potential . . . you would be his greatest, his most trusted. This is the chance you've been waiting for."

I let her speech wash over me, word by word. The rhythm drew me in. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, let my imagination take hold.

School bored me. Voldemort would teach me skills far beyond what I could learn at Hogwarts. Few existed who could still teach me anything about magic, but Voldemort was one of them. For a dangerous moment, I allowed myself to imagine standing beside him as the world fell at his feet. Power beyond comprehension. How would it feel to wield that kind of influence? I knew I had the talent. All I needed were connections. Bellatrix was offering those to me on a gilded platter.

Dark magic. Would I enjoy using it? What would it feel like to torture – to kill? My heartbeat sped up. The rhythm sounded strange in my ears.

Finally, I imagined how my brother's face would look when I told him I'd joined up. That solidified my decision. Anything to hurt him as much as he'd hurt our family.

"I'll tell you what," Bellatrix said after a moment. "I'll give you this Portkey – not old enough to Apparate, are you? – use it to come to the next meeting. Tomorrow night, eight o'clock. No commitment necessary. I promise you won't be disappointed."

I nodded. Took the amulet she gave me. Tucked it away. Felt the adrenaline rushing through my veins. Heart fueled by excitement and curiosity.

I ask myself now: if I'm a genius, why didn't I see the folly in my plan? I can only answer with this.

Genius isn't everything. Not even close.

"_I am half sick of shadows," said_

_The Lady of Shallot. _

–Tennyson


	3. Cain and Abel

**Chapter 3;** Cain and Abel

I stared at the Portkey Bellatrix had given me for a good fifteen minutes before I finally mustered the courage to place my hand on it. When I did, the world twisted and vanished. For a moment, I could only hear my own heartbeat, thudding noisily against the roar of the Portkey.

I landed, disconcerted, in a dim and inoffensive room. There was nothing particularly striking about the room, nothing that set it apart from any other room I had ever been in. In short, it could have passed for any pure-blood family's parlor in Britain. As I watched others arrive, I noticed that they'd all used Portkeys as well. Apparently, no one actually knew where the place was. I ventured a wild guess that it was also Unplottable. Evidently, Voldemort liked to have everyone under tight control.

Nevertheless, I breathed a sigh of relief. Normal people in a normal room. No formalities, no chanting, no animal or human sacrifices like I had half expected.

"Hey, Regulus!" Rabastan Lestrange called out jovially. He strode over and slapped my back, throwing an arm around me. "About time you showed up! Don't let these fine people here intimidate you. You may be only sixteen, but I'll bet you can hold your own with anyone here."

I laughed shakily. "Let's hope."

He steered me forcefully over to a group of men and women chatting animatedly around the hearth.

"So, it's true?" a woman asked, directing her gaze toward me. "From what I understand, your brain can run circles around just about everything in this room."

"Er . . ." I flushed, unsure whether or not she was making fun of me.

"This kid is so smart that he took second-year Arithmancy in German just for the hell of it," Rabastan clarified, tightening his grip around my shoulder as I tried to pull away. "He took his O.W.L.S. same year I did and got a perfect score, beat everyone in my class. How old were you back then, Reg? Thirteen?"

"Yeah," I agreed hastily, even though I'd only been twelve.

The young woman looked mildly impressed. "So, you're set to be the youngest Death Eater ever initiated?"

"I . . ." I felt the blood drain from my face. "Er, maybe."

"Elise Locksley," she said smartly, sticking out her hand. "Youngest _female _Death Eater ever initiated. Looks like I've got some competition."

Her smile was surprisingly genuine. From what I could discern in the dim light, she was a small, compact girl with a pixie-like face and red-orange hair chopped above her shoulder. She brimmed with confidence. I took her hand and shook it firmly, smiling. "How old are you?"

"I was eighteen when I joined up last year," she supplied. "Aside from Bellatrix and Alecto, I'm the only female that's lasted more than six months. Most girls get a little queasy from this sort of thing, know what I mean?"

"Watch out for this one," Rabastan mock-whispered to me. "She looks harmless now, but she can _definitely_ hold her own."

She nodded solemnly, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "He's right – best to steer clear. I've heard you're a boy genius, but your brains won't do a thing for you if you decide to pick a fight with me."

I smirked. "I'll, uh . . . I'll keep that in mind."

She smiled again, eyes glowing in the firelight. "You're too cute," she proclaimed, and ruffled my hair before turning away.

"See?" Rabastan noted, at last releasing me from his stranglehold. "You already got one female admirer, and not a bad one if I do say so myself."

I laughed, and it came with surprising ease. "I've got to go find my cousin – she'll kill me if I don't talk to her before–"

"Too late," he muttered, gaze diverted to the right. I turned to observe men and women gathering slowly around a tall, hooded figure who had appeared without a sound. The noise level dropped off considerably, though he hadn't said a word.

I carefully took a seat next to Bellatrix. She didn't take her eyes off of him, not to greet me or even acknowledge my presence. At this point the room had gone dead silent and incredibly still.

"Humanity is lost."

His voice echoed unnaturally, as if the stones and windows did not seek to absorb the sound, but to amplify it.

"Humanity is lost to ignorance. Humanity is lost to iniquity. Humanity is lost to greed, to oppression, to fear, to complacency. We know this, in some small way," he intoned, and his voice held the audience immobile. "We see it in the vacant glances of passers-by; we hear it in the faintness of our own heartbeats. We feel it sometimes, in those rare moments between sleep and wakefulness – for in those moments, the illusions disappear. Humanity is lost to shame, to sorrow, to weakness, to corruption."

He paused there, and the audience held its breath. His voice was power, poison, clarity.

"Religion is dead," and their hearts beat again. "Admit it. Religion has failed you. For ages, man has sought answers through religion . . . where he could not find them, he invented them. But alas, three thousand years of faith, of devotion, of belief, and the answers elude us still! We are not closer to finding them, but farther than ever."

His voice picked up speed and volume. "Humanity is lost. We are reverent of nothing, respectful of nothing. Humanity is lost to insubordination, to flippancy, to vulgarity. You know this. You are lost – I offer you guidance. You are weak – I offer you power. You hover on the brink of death – I offer you immortality."

And they were moved– to shock and to silent tears. He spoke and they listened. They listened harder and more desperately than they had ever listened in their lives, clung to his voice like a last chance. He spoke next in a whisper, direct and urgent.

"In a world of anarchy, let me be your king. In a world which holds nothing sacred . . . let me be your God_._"

And they were blinded.

I felt his voice change me, or at least, I felt it try. It struck me as the kind of voice that would alter something small inside of me, seemingly insubstantial to the whole. But it would burrow deeper, unnoticed, and uproot morals like weeds, cast off foundations like cheap overcoats. I wouldn't understand it at first, and by the time I did it would be too late.

He spoke and I listened. We all listened, because anything else was inconceivable.

When he asked to see me privately after the meeting had ended, I nodded mutely, not sure what to say to a man with this capability for manipulation. Because, after the spell of his voice had been broken, I saw it sharply for what it was– manipulation of the most subtle, intimate nature. He was a master at it. So when I faced him, I opted to say nothing at all, for fear that he would find a way to use it against me.

Long shadows obscured the left side of his face. The right side remained revoltingly lucid in the flickering light.

Red eyes, pale skin, slits for nostrils . . . terrifying. Yet I was fascinated from the moment I saw him.

Bellatrix stood beside him, excitement evident in the unnatural brightness of her eyes.

"Regulus Black," Voldemort greeted with a cold upturn of his lips. It emulated a smile, it mocked a smile – it would never pass for one. "I've heard so much about you. At last, I can look upon the face of genius."

Mockery dripped thickly from his voice. I attempted to remain silent and expressionless.

"That is what you believe yourself to be, isn't it?" Voldemort continued, rising in a fluid motion from his seat. "A frustrated, underappreciated genius– no one comprehends the depth of your mind. An immortal among mortals, lonely because of your intellect, suffering from a large inferiority complex, eager to detach yourself from your brother's sullied image, harbouring the tragically delusional belief that you are somehow smart enough or skilled enough to join my ranks."

I raised my eyebrows. He had taken one look at me and summed up my life in a compact, scathing, and entirely accurate sentence. Bellatrix smirked. She knew this would impress rather than deter me.

He clasped his hands together in apparent triumph at my expression. "Yes. I rather thought so."

"I _am_ smart enough to join your ranks," I countered shakily. The pasty skin on his forehead crinkled in surprise.

"You're arrogant as well," he noted. And then, more softly, "Just like your brother."

"No," I corrected quickly, "not like my brother. With all due respect, I'm just stating a fact."

The Dark Lord nodded. "I see. In that case, you wouldn't mind undergoing a little test to prove your abilities? I'm sure it will be more than simple for someone as . . . _gifted_ as you are."

I nodded in assent.

He removed his wand and muttered a brief incantation. A small, perfect cube appeared in his hand. As he lifted it to the light, I saw that each face had many small coloured squares painted upon it. It looked like some sort of three-dimensional puzzle.

A small smile played at his lips. "Have you ever seen one of these?"

I shook my head.

"It's a variation on a mildly amusing Muggle game. There are fifty-four coloured squares on the face of this larger cube. There are six colours, nine squares on each face. You can rotate the squares by moving them manually. I want you to attempt to position all nine red squares on one face, all nine blue squares on another face, and so forth. How old are you? Sixteen? It took me five minutes to solve this when I was your age. Your cousin Bellatrix holds second place: three days! Begin now."

He tossed the cube to me and I caught it. The puzzle seemed simple enough; there were only so many combinations the cube could have. Besides, the centre pieces had to be stationary. I could build the puzzle around that.

I began to move the faces of the cube, and was met with a surprise: the colours of the squares themselves began changing. Not only did I have to solve the cube, I also had to solve it while the colours changed spontaneously. Six colours, nine squares, each one changing once per every two seconds . . . I tried to do the math. The combinations soon exited the linear frame of mathematics and multiplied on themselves exponentially. There were too many to count.

I examined the puzzle carefully as it rested in my hand, and realised there was a pattern to the colour changes; they rotated systematically through the six colours, then began again. It wasn't as hard as I had originally assumed, simply a matter of holding each cube's "true" colour in my mind, and solving for that rotation.

I scrutinized the cube for a good thirty seconds, memorizing each square's colour rotation. Voldemort's expression was smug. He thought I was so confused that I didn't even know where to start.

I began moving pieces, slowly and methodically. I ignored the rotation of colours and held just one colour in my mind for each square. I made a few mistakes, but they were easily corrected. After about a minute, I had all the pieces in place. I waited for the colours to finish their rotations, and then a satisfying 'click' sounded throughout the room. Nine identically coloured squares rested on each face.

"Accio," Voldemort hissed suddenly. He grasped the cube and examined it closely, face impassive. Then he looked up at me, very slowly. "Remarkable."

"I don't understand it myself, my Lord," Bellatrix murmured. "Blacks have always possessed high intelligence, but this is unnatural . . . some strange mutation of the mind . . ."

I realised too late that I had made a mistake. Though his face didn't show it, he had expected me to fail at solving his "amusing" puzzle. Instead I had solved it twice as fast as he ever had. I'd gone from being a possible pawn to something worse: a threat.

"You were close to your brother, were you not?"

Voldemort's question made my head snap up.

"Yes," I admitted. Voldemort was the greatest Legilimens alive. I wasn't stupid enough to think I had the skill to lie to him.

His red eyes narrowed, and I suddenly got the feeling that this, too, had been a test. It conveyed to him that I knew of his ability and wished not to provoke him.

"Did you know I've met him?" Voldemort asked softly, like a cat playing with a trapped mouse. "Your brother, that is. Something in his face . . . it will be interesting to watch him break."

I pushed back the bile rising in my throat, concentrated solely on regulating my expression.

"I am willing to make an exception for you, Regulus Black. You will be the youngest Death Eater ever initiated. Consider it an honour. And yet I ask myself, will you be able to handle all that you see, or are you a coward?"

"I'm not a coward, my Lord," I proclaimed emphatically. I wished so bad that it was true.

"I see great potential in you. But genius is not everything. I am giving you one chance and one chance only; you have not proven your loyalty to me yet. Listen carefully."

He dropped his voice and leaned closer. Crimson eyes seared into mine. "If I see one hint of your brother in you, I will not hesitate to make sure that your fate is the same as his."

"I'm not my brother," I whispered, because I couldn't stand to say it any louder.

He processed this vulnerability impassively, stored it away in his personal arsenal. I'd never met someone more perceptive. He used his intelligence like a scalpel.

"The initiation is in one week," Voldemort declared. "You and two others will take the Mark. I suggest you spend the week preparing for the festivities."

"Festivities?" I asked, too curious to worry about insolence.

He smirked. "Leave me."

This cold dismissal ended our contact, and Bellatrix escorted me from the room.

When we had Apparated safely away, a light came into her eyes like I hadn't seen before. I would be subject to this dark illumination more frequently as the days passed – brilliance verging on madness, admiration on jealousy.

"No one ever talks to him like you did," she observed softly. "No one."

* * *

My first encounter with Voldemort left me changed somehow. I became oddly philosophical, and remembered things I thought had faded into the recesses of my memory.

For instance, I kept thinking about a story I read once in the Muggle Bible. God was so angry at man that he flooded the earth for forty days and forty nights to punish him for his sins. Only a few men lived through the storm. When the sun came out again, God realised that he'd made a mistake. Maybe he'd been too hard on his people. Maybe.

So he gave them a rainbow, the first one ever, as a way of saying sorry, and as a promise that he would never do it again.

Colour. What colour was regret? I didn't know. God wasn't sure either, so he created a little bit of each, red and yellow and even a little bit of violet.

I wasn't making a lot of sense, even to myself. I must have taken a wrong turn, or perhaps dozed off, somewhere between sunlight and Noah's ark and the colour of rainbows.

* * *

The next week passed in an onslaught of colours and sounds. People I didn't know suddenly wanted to treat me to lunch, and congratulations were piled on my shoulders from left and right. Everyone I knew was pleased, if not exuberant, about the impending initiation. One exception was Sirius. The other was Adele.

I don't know how Sirius found out. When he passed me in the halls or saw me outside of school, he threw a consistent, accusatory glare in my direction. He confronted me, as I eventually knew he would, but he spewed some self-righteous, depreciating rubbish, and I barely listened.

Adele was another matter entirely. I decided to break the good news to both her and my parents at the same time, so I invited her to dinner. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, and my parents thought nothing of it.

Halfway through the main course, I announced that I would be initiated in less than a week.

My mother reacted immediately – I thought she might combust with happiness. I'd never seen her so cheerful in fifteen years.

"I've been waiting so long for this day. Too long," she added, with a meaningful look at the seat Sirius had vacated permanently.

My father was stoic, as usual, but I could tell he approved. "I'm proud of you, son," he announced predictably. "More proud of you than I've ever been."

Adele too chimed in with congratulations, but I'd seen her face freeze when I first made the announcement. She had composed it carefully before responding. Neither of my parents, in their elation, had taken any notice.

The duration of the meal passed in cheerful chatter, mostly on my mother's part. Adele was unusually quiet, until my father asked her a question, voice sharp. She straightened up.

"Sorry, sir?"

"I'd inquired as to how your mother was faring."

She paused for a long while, looking down at the table.

Adele had that unsettling kind of confidence rare even in adults. Most adults, my parents included, shied away from silence, from the pause between sentences, the space between words, the heartbeat between syllables. They would do anything to mask it, to seal the gaping holes it opened up. Inevitably, they patched the quiet up rather than filled it, usually with some sudden, arbitrary explosion of sound or dialogue, punctuated by their own nervous, flighty breathing.

Adele _used_ silence. She faced it down with remarkable calm, and it opened worlds to her. When the pause between their sentences became too long, most people were left flustered, sputtering, and wholly unable to continue. Adele, on the other hand, did not associate silence with incompetence, and therefore was really able to_ think_ before she spoke. Her speech was delightful, slow, didactic, because you could tell she was making it all up as she went along, utterly unconcerned about the ratio between silence and sound.

"She's doing better, sir. Her episodes are less frequent. The doctors still haven't discovered the cause of the affliction, though."

"Give her my best wishes, then. It's a shame."

"I will, sir."

She said nothing else for the rest of the meal. Finally she rose slowly.

"My parents are expecting me home. Thank you for the meal and invitation."

"Always a pleasure," my mother answered, still cheerful. I stood up.

"I'll escort you to the door," I opined quickly.

"We have servants, you know," my father pointed out wryly. Cecilia, standing in the corner, acknowledged Adele with a nod.

"I insist," I replied, with a tight smile.

"Very well. We'll be in the drawing room."

Adele and I made our way slowly down the hall. She shivered, understandably. She was thin and even in the summertime, heat and sunlight didn't seem to penetrate the walls of the manor. I'd grown tall in the past year, as tall as Sirius, but she hadn't grown at all. She seemed slighter than I remembered, coming only to my chest, almost as slender as her dying mother. Her bright blonde hair flickered in the uneven light; china-blue eyes completed her doll-like appearance.

I took her hand, which was ice cold, and lifted it slowly to examine the bruise on her wrist.

"How'd you get this one?" I asked, trying to suppress a smile.

She rolled her eyes. "Banged it against the doorframe on the way in."

"Mm," I murmured noncommittally. "And this one?" I softly fingered the yellow-purple bruise on her neck.

She smiled, a tiny bit. "If you must know, I collided with the nightstand while getting out of bed yesterday."

The latent smile broke out over my face, and I averted my eyes. "You'd think that someone with your condition would eventually learn to be less klutzy."

"Shut up!" she laughed indignantly. "It's not my fault I bruise at every stupid little thing."

"Sorry about my father. He's kind of insensitive . . . I don't think he gets it. About your mum, I mean."

"It's fine." She smiled. "You're always apologizing for your family. It's cute, but unnecessary."

"Sorry."

"Look, Reg," she rushed on, suddenly nervous, "are you sure about this . . . initiation? You've read the newspapers lately, haven't you?"

"I'm positive," I answered. "I've . . . never wanted anything more than I want this."

She frowned. "Why? I don't understand. Ever since your brother left, you've been . . ."

"Stop it."

She glanced up, surprised and a little hurt. I took a deep breath. "Sorry. Did that sound rude? What I meant was, I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring Sirius into this. He had nothing to do with my decision."

Her lips tightened with latent disbelief. When she spoke again, I could hear the pleading in her voice.

"It's dangerous, Reg. I get the feeling this is more than just some country club for pure-bloods. I mean, I trust you know what you're getting yourself into, but . . . Merlin, I just never thought you'd fit the mould of a servant of You-Know-Who."

We'd reached the doorway. I frowned, looking at my feet. "So you don't think I'm . . . what? Strong enough? Brave enough?"

"No!" She shook her head fervently. "It's not that. Not at all."

"Then what? What is it?"

"You know what? I have to go. I'll talk to you about this later, all right? Congratulations, though . . . if it makes you happy, I really am happy."

She smiled, some sincerity in her eyes, and kissed my cheek quickly. Before she turned around I squeezed her hand.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

She didn't say anything. I watched her slight figure fade into the distance, until she reached a place where Apparition became possible. I didn't see her vanish, just looked up and realised that she was gone.

* * *

"She's not good enough for you, Regulus."

That was the greeting my mother endowed me with when I entered the drawing room a few moments later.

I frowned. "Pardon?"

"Adele, I mean," my mother elaborated.

My father spoke up. "You seem very fond of her."

I shrugged and took a seat in a dark leather armchair. My mother was splayed extravagantly on the couch, drinking hard iced bourbon.

"I am, Father. We've been friends since we were young."

He nodded curtly, but my mother suppressed a grimace and continued, "We're aware of that. But you have other friends . . . I hear you're quite popular with the girls at school."

I flushed. This was just ridiculous. Glancing around hastily, I searched for a reason to leave. Finding none, I settled for an uncomfortable shrug.

"It's her family, Regulus," my mother said finally.

I froze. "I don't understand what you mean. Her family's pure-blood, well-off, and they know the right kind of people . . ."

That was one of the reasons I'd allowed myself to become attached to her. I'd believed that with her spotless image and lineage, my parents would not be able to find a reason to object to our relationship. This couldn't be happening.

"They're hangers-on," my mother cut me off wearily. "Do you really think they meet our standards? They aren't half as well-off as most of the families we know, and their blood is somewhat diluted. Besides, Regulus, her mother is sickly and Adele will probably end up the same way."

"That's not her fault," I protested softly. "It's an isolated case, it doesn't run in the family . . ."

"So they claim," she scoffed, taking a generous sip of her bourbon. "Regulus, you've shaped up to be everything I've wanted in a son, and I know you're fond of the girl, but take into consideration that in a year or two, you will probably be married to someone more suitable."

The words hurt me more than I thought they would. "But Mum, I really think–"

"We're telling you this for your own good," my father chimed in. "Play around with the girl all you want, but keep in mind that she is only a diversion. I suggest you begin to distance yourself from her."

His words lanced through me with astounding impact. Diversion? Play toy? Is that what he thought she was? Adele wasn't just some teenage fling to me, like one of my brother's girls – I'd known her since we were seven. He knew that. My mother knew it too, but she said nothing.

"You've made us proud lately. We know you'll make the right decision."

Anger boiled up in me, anger so strong that I wanted to tell them everything. I opened my mouth to say that she was my friend, my best friend. She was one of the only people who _really _mattered anymore. I'd set it up so that they wouldn't be able to take her away from me.

I closed my mouth when I realised who I would inevitably sound like. Instead I took a deep breath. "Of course," I answered, pushing the anger back down. Surely they were only trying to protect me. I convinced myself frantically that I understood.

My father rose and squeezed my shoulder. "Very good, son. You're going to have a new set of friends very soon, with your initiation coming on. I'm sure you won't be unhappy."

I nodded.

Distance myself. That shouldn't be hard. I could do it.

At that moment, I convinced myself that I wouldn't care in a few months. I'd make myself not care, just like I'd done with Sirius. My older brother had meant everything to me, more than I had ever meant to him. He had friends that would die for him, girls that would live for him, and I'd merely been his annoying younger brother, prone to following him around and asking too many questions.

Forgetting Sirius had taken a lot. Compared to that, letting go of Adele would be no problem at all.

* * *

I had a dream the night before the initiation. I always believed that dreams were re-castings of the past rather than predictions of the future, but this dream was entirely unfamiliar. I knew it wasn't from my past. I could remember clearly as far back as a year old – the doctors at St. Mungo's claimed that my brain had developed at an exponential rate.

In the dream, I sat in the compartment of a train, alone. What I remembered most was the desperation, an incessant gnawing in my stomach, something I had to do that I wasn't doing fast enough, and yet the train tapered along languidly.

I was in Italy. I knew that much. The landscape outside crept by like a green spider, fields and fields of perfect green, while the grey sky desaturated everything else. The train began to speed up at last: crawl, trot, gallop, sprint, mach, until it wasn't a train at all anymore but some sort of inhumanly fast vessel of flight, Apparition but faster, a monochromatic kaleidoscope closing in around me from all sides. Suddenly I knew it was the speed that would kill me eventually, not the desperation. I literally flew across the landscape, faster and faster until nothing at all was clear. I was going so fast that I wasn't sure I was going to make it.

* * *

The night of the initiation came suddenly. When I took a Portkey to the requested location, dressed in the robes Bellatrix had given me, I tried to tell myself that I wasn't afraid.

I landed outside, in a clearing so thickly wooded that it might have been the Forbidden Forest. Immediately, signs of human activity became apparent. Numerous campfires burned around the clearing; more people were present than I'd imagined. How many Death Eaters did Lord Voldemort have at his command? Laughter and shouting pervaded the clearing, almost like an outdoor party gone too wild. I approached the nearest campfire tentatively. From afar, I saw silhouettes gathered around a central figure, laughing casually. I surmised that they were playing some sort of game.

On closer inspection I saw that the central figure was female, and she wasn't wearing black robes. She wore Muggle clothing instead.

The group exploded with laughter again. Someone shoved her across the loose circle, and a man not much older than me caught her roughly. "What did you say? Say it again. Say it louder!"

"Please," came her near-inaudible response. She seemed half-conscious, delirious with panic as she swooned in the circle of his arms.

I froze. My legs simply wouldn't move.

He smirked. "You can beg as much as you want, sweetheart, but it just won't change my mind. You're filthy – I couldn't stand touching your bare skin, see?"

Another round of laughter, and she was tossed again like a rag-doll into someone else's arms. This man looked her up and down, leering. "You're right, you're right . . . I wouldn't have to feel guilty about fucking an animal . . . you know, you almost had me convinced for a moment there – but no, I don't think so. You still repulse me."

He tossed her to the ground by her hair. Her yelp of pain drew laughter and hooting from everyone present. His voice was deceptively sympathetic when he spoke next.

"All right, all right. We're done playing with you. It was just a joke, yeah?"

A voice shocked me out of my paralysis. "Kind of turns your stomach, doesn't it?"

Elise appeared at my side, a look of mild distaste on her face as she observed her fellow Death Eaters. She jerked her head. "Let's get out of here – their antics kind of shocked me at first as well."

I turned away without saying a word.

"They're harmless to you and me," she clarified, reading fear on my face like a timetable. When I still didn't say anything, she continued, "It's just Muggle-baiting. They won't kill her, at least not tonight. And in the morning, she won't remember a thing."

_Do they heal the bruises too or will she wake up wondering why she hurts so badly? _I didn't say it out loud, though. I didn't want to know.

Her head snapped towards me when she realised I still hadn't said anything. "Look, Regulus, not everybody here is like them, all right? It happens during every revolution – people use the cause as an excuse to do vile things. You can't let it get to you. Some of us actually believe what the Dark Lord is trying to preach. I'm not a sadist, like your cousin – I'm here because he is the most brilliant leader I've ever met. I'm here because I believe what he's saying and I believe every word."

She turned her head as a flash of blinding light issued from behind us. Her eyes, illuminated briefly, lit up the space around us. Suddenly she was feverish, unrecognizable.

"Come on! He's here!"

She took off toward the source of light without another word.

The laughter died immediately. Campfires flickered out as people moved relentlessly towards the blue-green orb of light.

As I approached, I saw that a cloaked figure held the orb in both hands. Presently, he released it, and it rose slowly, hovering a few metres above his head. It lit the scene, altar and makeshift pews in their entirety. People had clustered, silently and reverentially, around their blue-green sun. The numbers surprised me. Forty had arrived, at least, and these compromised Voldemort's inner circle, his most trusted. Who were they? I would never know half their faces.

"For those few who do not know, we stand tonight at the burial site of Salazar Slytherin. We are gathered to indoctrinate three new believers into our faith. Let us hope that they are worthy of this honour."

I listened tensely as he called the first name. "Matthew Avery, step forward."

A figure, masked and cloaked, emerged from the crowd. He came to stand directly in front of Lord Voldemort.

"I won't bother you with the obvious requirements," Voldemort drawled as he removed his wand. "An oath to serve me is a permanent, irreversible oath – one that I will hold to your death. You may still decline with no consequence. What is your choice?"

"I accept," Avery said quickly, holding out his arm. Voldemort touched his wand to it, and an inky mark bloomed on his skin.

"Regulus Black," Voldemort called, as Avery backed away. I stepped forward, mind reeling at what I had just seen. I stared him in the face; he looked at me for longer than he'd looked at Avery. Finally, he said, "I make the same offer to you, Regulus. If you wish to decline, do so now."

I did everything in my power to stop my mouth from hanging open. I hadn't expected this at all – this simple, quiet, clear-cut initiation. Where was the Mudblood sacrifice? Why didn't I have to perform some sort of task, something to demonstrate that I was ready? Where was the pressure?

Instead, he left the choice entirely in my hands. He wasn't going to do anything to coerce me unfairly into taking the Mark.

It was so much worse this way.

"I accept," I said at last, vision going strange. For a moment the world broke down into primary colours. Red, yellow, and blue swirled around fantastically, smearing the world beyond recognition.

"Hold out your arm."

My vision returned to normal and sharpened. I watched the tip of his wand touch my skin and waited for the pain to begin. I screwed my eyes shut, unable to stand the suspense.

When I opened them, the Dark Mark was there, etched into my skin permanently. No theatrics. No pain.

Somehow, the lack of pain disconcerted me more than anything else I'd experienced that night. How could something so permanent be so silent and sudden?

I didn't understand it. I hadn't even paid a price. I knew I was being ridiculous, maybe even masochistic, but I couldn't get it out of my head. I should have had to _trade _something for the Mark. It couldn't be free.

Voldemort smiled at me in the half-light, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. I suppressed a shudder and turned my face away.

* * *

Laughter exploded around me, and I joined in slowly. I sat at a table in The Three Broomsticks with nine or ten other Slytherins. It was the first Saturday night of winter break and the place was packed.

We'd been drinking for about two hours, Butterbeer and Firewhisky and all manner of mixed drinks. For once I'd relaxed and had a few drinks myself.

I threw my arm around a girl, someone pretty, laughing with her at a joke. She leaned her face closer to mine and suddenly she was kissing me and I liked it, the falling sensation, the strength of her arms. What I liked most was that I didn't have to be gentle with her, didn't have to wonder if she would break at any moment.

I hadn't really listened when she had told me her name. At first I'd felt slightly guilty about fooling around with other girls, but I had gotten used to it. Distancing myself from Adele had been easier than I'd thought it would be; all girls were the same in the end, silly and self-absorbed, ridiculously eager to please boys like me who didn't give a damn about them.

"Hey, look, it's your girlfriend."

I glanced over at Elise, who had spoken with a quirked eyebrow. I followed her eyes across the bar. Adele had entered with a few friends, chatting happily and oblivious to my presence.

We had become a bit distant in the past few months, but I'd never had the heart to break it off with her, as my parents constantly saw fit to remind me.

I laughed bitterly. "This should do the trick, Mum," I muttered to myself.

"What was that, sir?" the old bartender asked.

"A Firewhisky," I said more loudly. "Make it a double."

I didn't protest as the girl practically plastered herself to my side, giggly more annoying than anything I could remember. She touched my forehead, my lips, buried her face in my neck, hair almost as soft as I was used to.

Adele looked up then, and at first I thought her eyes would slip right past me for lack of recognition. Then she did a classic double-take, because once wasn't enough. Once didn't convince her. I dropped my gaze before I saw any more, but that proved to be a mistake. It played out in my head more vividly and more slowly than it would have in real time: her face whitening in shock, threatening to shatter, eyes welling, and then quick composure. It only took a few seconds at most, but it stuck in my mind like molasses.

When my drink did come, I dropped it, by accident, before I had even taken a sip. The girl, whoever she was, jumped at the sound of glass shattering, and her shudder reverberated in the hollow of my chest.

"You all right?" she asked, smiling entreatingly.

I felt drunk, really drunk, though I hadn't consumed that much alcohol. I chanced a glance at Adele. She was talking casually with Amycus Carrow, smiling a slight gem of a smile. He laughed and touched her shoulder.

"Regulus?"

I looked away. She could have any guy she wanted, even an idiot like Amycus, if it made her happy. I pushed down the jealousy, pushed it back under the boiling surface of my thoughts. I had absolutely no right to be jealous after how I had treated her.

"Regulus!"

Somebody smacked my shoulder, hard. I turned to find Elise grinning. "I called your name three times, idiot."

"Uh, sorry," I mumbled.

"Just go over there and talk to her, for God's sake," Elise hissed, eyes darting towards Adele. "If you stare any harder you're going to burn a hole in her forehead."

"I'm not . . . I wasn't . . ." I trailed off as Amycus put his hand on the small of her back, drawing her forward. She looked uncomfortable but not unhappy. He leaned down –

I jerked my face away and vaulted out of my seat. Went to the bar, ordered another Firewhisky, actually drank it this time. Someone said something to me and I answered with, "No," because I couldn't think of anything else to say. Things were starting to snap out of control, too many colours and noises to keep track of.

Slowly, I returned to my seat, allowed the parasite to reattach herself, and tried to focus on anyone but Adele. It was so loud that I couldn't hear anything.

Finally, I couldn't bear it anymore. I looked up, looked over at them, and felt my gasp before I heard it. Amycus was kissing Adele, hard, hands pressed up against the table behind her. She leaned back, as far back as she could without falling onto the table, disgust and pain evident in her expression. She pushed hard against his chest, shook her head, but he kept at it, moving his hands up onto her neck to draw her more firmly to him. I knew, I _knew, _just by looking, that she would bruise from that grip; she'd bruised from much less.

I pushed the stupid girl away from me and leapt up, not sure what I was going to do. It was like watching some predator devour helpless prey in slow motion.

Somebody, dark-haired, moved towards the couple and jerked Amycus away from her. She collapsed back against the table, relieved and shaken. When she looked up at her savior I could tell she thought it was me, at least for a split second.

It was Sirius.

My brother shoved Amycus roughly, shouting, "Can't you see you were hurting her, idiot? For Merlin's sake, you are thoroughly sloshed . Go on! Get out of here, you lout, go home."

Laughter rang throughout the bar; Amycus flushed bright puce, but clearly didn't want to pick a fight with Sirius Black. Sirius made a flourishing motion toward the door, and Amycus took the hint.

"You all right there, Adele?" Sirius asked, grinning down at her. "Not going to bleed to death on us or anything, are you?"

She laughed; few were so casual about her fragile state of health. Sirius pulled it off quite easily.

"Nah, I'm fine," she managed after a minute. "I'll just bruise up a little. Guess I'm not made for hardcore snogging. Thanks, though."

"No problem, kid," Sirius answered. Before he returned to his table, he shot an inscrutable look at me. I tried to breathe through the guilt of doing nothing. Doing nothing to help the person I cared about most in the world, while Sirius, a mere acquaintance to her, had helped without a second thought, like the natural gentleman he was.

I settled morosely back into my chair and tried to take a few deep breaths. Slytherins around me carried on, cheerful as ever.

A few minutes later, the mood changed. Duncan Deborough, a seventh year Slytherin, stood up abruptly and winked once. "It's time I be getting home," he announced a little too loudly. The others gave a general murmur of agreement and rose swiftly.

I frowned and looked at DeBorough. "What's going on?" The amusement and good cheer hadn't fully faded from my voice.

Peter Rosier's face hardened. "Go home, Regulus. For your own good."

"Hey," I protested, feigning an offended tone, "I'm drunk, but I'm not _that _drunk–"

"That's not what I meant. This is about your brother. Go home – you really don't want to see it."

"What makes you think I give a shit about my brother?" I announced callously, so that everyone in the vicinity could hear.

"I dunno, it just seemed like you did."

"Not anymore."

He shrugged and motioned for me to follow him. The group filed out into the cold, snowy night, and I followed, confused and disconcerted.

"Straight ahead," someone called excitedly. I craned my neck to see what he was referring to. Finally, about twenty metres ahead of us, I noticed a couple strolling down the main street of Hogsmeade. The taller figure had his arm wrapped around the female; her head rested on his shoulder. She laughed, a tinkling sound, and he swayed slightly, obviously drunk.

My brother stopped when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and turned slowly to face the group. The girl on his arm shrunk back in apprehension – he stepped in front of her in a gesture so natural that it went unnoticed.

"'Lo, Black," someone called from the front of the group. "How goes it?"

We formed a tight circle around the couple, vulture-like, before they could respond.

"Evening, gentlemen," Sirius smirked, unperturbed.

The girl, clinging to his side, muttered, "Who are they, Sirius? What do they want?"

He answered her cheerfully. "Seems we've got Rosier, Macnair, Debourough, Penderton. . . oh, 'lo there, Snivellus, long time no see. And . . . oh? There's Regulus. Reg, meet Cammie. Cammie, this is my brother Regulus. He's a nice bloke most of the time. Do me a favour and don't judge him solely on this one meeting. Mob mentality, you know what I mean? Anyhow, seems they want to fight me – or, since they're Slytherin, beat me up badly and skip all that 'fair fight' nonsense. If they're feeling particularly nasty they might threaten to kill me, though they won't go through with it. Not sure, actually. I'm a bit drunk."

"Get out of here!" one of them called roughly, jerking his head at 'Cammie.' "We don't want to hurt you – just your idiot boyfriend."

"Go on," Sirius said gently, detaching her arm from his and smiling reassuringly. "They'll let you through. Even Slytherins aren't _that_ low."

"But Sirius, what about you–"

"I'll be fine," he reassured her cheerfully. "Seriously, Cammie. These little boys just want to play a big boy's game. I might as well indulge them, no?"

I had to admire it: the nonchalance, the audacity, the unhurried wit, when he knew he might not make it out alive.

She left reluctantly. The circle parted wordlessly and then closed back up.

"Sirius Black," Macnair chided. "What to do with you? A traitor to your own kind, now a champion of Mudblood rights as well? Not to mention a key player in the pathetic resistance to the Dark Lord. You make me sick."

"Tell me, Macnair, do you still wank off to those pictures of my cousin under your pillow? It's a lost cause, mate, she's a married woman now. And you're still just a little kid. What is this, the wankers' club for Slytherins who weren't good enough to become Death Eaters? Ah – except – I seem to have forgotten – there _is _a Death Eater amongst your ranks. Regulus." He grinned and bowed deeply, stumbling slightly as he rose back up. "Sorry, little brother. Forgot you were the real deal."

"You would," I remarked, bitterness edging into my voice. "You always thought you were braver and better than me – you didn't think I had the guts for this."

A real flicker of pain passed across his face, just another part of his genius act to everyone else.

To his credit, he recovered quickly, pressing a finger to his lips. "Yes, I do notice a change. Is this how you decided you would put the _infamous _Sirius Black in his place? Fifteen sober kids against me? Well, you do the math; you've always been good at that. Should I lie down or would kneeling offer you more options? I can't make it much easier, but I could try. You have changed, Reg – I used to suspect I was better than you. Now I know it."

Silence. Angry, seething silence.

"Well, prove him wrong!" someone shouted at me. "One on one – take him down!"

I found that I had been shoved into the middle of the circle, face to face with Sirius.

"Ah, Regulus Black. The fearless Death Eater." Sirius spread his arms in a grandiose fashion. "Hit me!" he dared. "C'mon, Reg. Now's your chance."

He removed his wand and stood motionless, awaiting my attack. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, an expression that tickled my memory. With a jolt, I realised he didn't think I was capable of dueling with him.

Last time, I'd been the coward. This time, it was him. I struck.

"_Tercognatus!_" I cried, slashing my wand upward. He tried to parry the blow, but drunkenness made him too slow. His head snapped back, blood spewing from three parallel slashes on his forehead. No one present recognized the symbol for what it was.

Presently, a voice emanated from outside of our circle, power-filled as any I'd ever heard before.

It took most of us a few moments to realize that curses were being hurled. In my case, it was too late. I froze almost instantly on the spot. Five more Slytherins froze before they could react. The remaining ones fumbled for their wands, desperate to evade the attacker's blows, half drunk themselves. The attacker spewed hexes and curses like honey, dodging and parrying blows with competent ease. The battle ended within minutes, and a dead sober Lily Evans stepped into my peripheral view.

This wouldn't end well.

* * *

_He told how the earth was first built, long ago . . . every wonder-bright plain and the turning seas, and set out as signs of his victory the sun and moon, great lamps for light to land-dwellers . . . and adorned the fields with all colours and sounds, made limbs and leaves and gave life to the every creature that moves on land. The harp turned solemn. He told of an ancient feud between two brothers which split all the world between darkness and light. And I was the dark side. _

_--Grendel, John Gardner_


	4. Heavenfall

**Chapter 4;** Heavenfall

Lily brandished her wand at the three remaining boys, huddled together uncertainly in the snow.

"Get away from here," she hissed. Without a word, they scampered. Others lay frozen, unconscious or otherwise incapacitated on the ground. Lily kicked a couple of them solidly in the ribs.

"'Lo there, Evans," Sirius greeted wryly, unharmed aside from the thin cuts I'd inflicted on his forehead. Lily herself looked a little worse for wear – a scratch along her cheek and a couple of articles of torn clothing, nothing more. "You always make an entrance, don't you? Your shirt is torn in the wrong place – oi, looks like Macnair cut straight through your–"

Lily responded by approaching swiftly and cracking him across the face. He winced visibly, trying to suppress a grin. "Sorry – I didn't mean it like that–"

"Sirius Black, what the hell do you think you were doing, walking around alone at night in a dark alleyway?"

"This isn't exactly a dark alleyway. It's the main street of Hogsmeade. And I wasn't alone, I was with Cammie."

Lily uttered an unattractive snort of frustration. "Black, you idiot, that bimbo isn't worth her weight in Pygmy Puffs. She wouldn't know a Death Eater from Albus Dumbledore if he–"

"As eternally grateful as I am to you for kicking Slytherin ass, Evans, I won't let you insult my girlfriend all you like."

"Girlfriend? Hardly! More like your little lapdog. Disgusting, honestly. C'mon, let's get back to Rosmerta's before these imbeciles wake up – come on! Now, you know better than to go out alone. Where are James and Peter? You're lucky I was having coffee with a friend or who knows where you'd be . . ."

Their voices got fainter as they moved away.

"You know James and Peter lately, Evans. Peter's always sulking and James went home early. He's been a terrible sport lately, no fun at all. It's entirely your influence, no doubt . . ."

* * *

The cuts drove me crazy. The cuts drove me absolutely insane.

I couldn't help but notice it – I noticed it more every single time I saw him. The three slender cuts I'd inflicted on Sirius's forehead still hadn't healed. He could get them removed at a hospital, or heal them himself, more likely. So why were they still there?

I saw him a few weeks later at a café in Hogsmeade. He sat with James, Lily, and Remus, sipping a coffee for once instead of something alcoholic. Although I sat alone, close to them, their backs were turned to me and I didn't think they noticed me watching them.

"Why are those scars still on your forehead?" I asked, approaching abruptly, but Sirius didn't look up. Suddenly James took notice of me, and he stood up carefully, as if weighing his next move.

"Message from Sirius to you," James announced loudly, "get the hell out of his life. Don't you think you've screwed it up enough already?"

"I wasn't talking to you," I explained patiently. "I was talking to my brother."

"Who?"

Sirius looked up, smile still in his eyes, and directed the question toward me.

"My brother," I repeated slowly, sarcastically.

Sirius glanced around in an over-exaggerated fashion, and then turned back to me with a small, polite smile. "There must be some mistake," was all he said.

I narrowed my eyes. "What?" It came out in a whisper.

James looked smug, happier than an idiot like him had any right to be. He said, "You're supposed to be some sort of genius, right? Work it out yourself, mate. But do it somewhere else, so that we don't have to look at you."

Then it clicked.

_My brother. There must be some mistake. _

_Brother. _

I turned away and didn't look back.

* * *

As the months wore on, whispers began to pervade the ranks, whispers of the biggest mission we'd ever planned coming to a head.

"Rumour has it the Dark Lord wants to reveal himself," Locksley whispered to me. "The Ministry doesn't realize how much power he's accumulated; they play it down in the newspapers to keep government ratings up. But rumour has it that the Dark Lord wants to do something so noticeable that even the Ministry won't be able to cover it up. That's why he's asking everyone to participate in the next mission. This is it, the first step in his Ministry takeover."

I begged Bellatrix, begged her incessantly to let me go. Every time I asked, she always gave me a searching once-over. "Not this time," she would perhaps answer, or, "The next one, little cous. This one's too dangerous."

I believed, at the time, her reluctance to let me go stemmed from concern for my well-being. I was wrong about that as well. Finally, my repeated pleas broke her down.

"Fine. I'll speak to the Dark Lord," she relented at long last. "You're so eager! I should be proud of you, but right now I'm just annoyed."

I grinned. "Thanks, Bella!"

That was how I ended up in Matthew Avery's drawing room the night before the mission, packed in excitedly with some of the younger Death Eaters and their friends.

"I've never been on a big mission before," Anthony Gibbon admitted excitedly. "I mean, just a few raids, not much action . . ."

"Bet I can rack up more kills than you!"

"I heard it'll be a _massacre_!"

And I laughed along with them, speculating and making ridiculous bets, cheeks flushed and heart pounding in anticipation. This was it. I wasn't just some lightweight. I'd really gone through with it. Of course I would use the Unforgivables – I had never encountered a spell that I couldn't perform correctly on the first try. I knew I would be up to the challenge when the time came. Coward was the last thing I would ever be again. That promise had been cemented by taking the mark.

And now I'd prove at last that I was worthy, important, some crucial part of this war, like my brother. Next time I saw Sirius, I'd be more than a match for him.

Though it was difficult, I finally managed to fall asleep. I didn't dream that night.

* * *

The St. Giles massacre was one of the bloodiest massacres in the history of London. Textbooks would use it to paint a picture of Voldemort at the height of his regime. Reporters ruined it, with their Quick-Quote Quills and incessant typewriters, with their endless statistics and commentaries.

Forty-one dead. Nine buildings torched. Fifty estimated missing or critically wounded. The words seemed utterly hollow to me.

I can't remember the exact moment I gained perspective. It was somewhere between Apparating into the middle of a Muggle street (surprised shouts pervaded the scene, not quite fearful) and watching Death Eaters lock a family of Muggles inside a burning house (screams so loud as their skin melted off that I could hear them from three blocks away). It was somewhere between watching Avery kiss his girlfriend goodbye (a short giggle of giddiness and a hasty "Good luck!") to witnessing a snarling, wolf-like man press his lips to a Muggle girl's throat (a muffled scream of protest, then nothing else). I gained perspective somewhere between discussing techniques for the Cruciatus ("a sharp flick of your wrist, and you really have to mean it!") to watching a grown man vomit up his own liquefied lungs (Voldemort's Cruciatus did indescribable things to its victims).

Then the Aurors and Order members arrived, and spells flew through the air so quickly that I didn't know what was happening. The world broke down into flashing lights. I couldn't tell friend from foe, and their curses were more powerful than I'd ever imagined. I ducked into a house (the door blown inward by Reducto), knees wobbling, breath hitching in my chest, eyes shut tight against the flashing lights.

My eyes flew open as I realised that the room had other inhabitants. Three people were backed against a wall, a young couple and their daughter. Five Death Eaters cornered them there, wands leveled casually at their heads.

Upon hearing glass shatter, the girl screamed and burrowed deeply into her father's arms. He wrapped an arm around his wife as well, as if he thought that doing so would protect her from five (six, if you included me) armed men.

"Who are you?" the Muggle whispered, voice shaking.

A Death Eater responded by wrenching his daughter away from him with a crude laugh. The woman screamed in dismay as three of them dragged her daughter into another room. I followed numbly, legs moving on their own accord.

They'd taken her into some sort of bedroom. A grown man shoved her against the wall so that you could hear the breath cracking out of her lungs between desperate sobs.

He removed his mask, confident that she would never live to identify him, and shoved his body up against hers, hot breath streaming onto her face, no doubt addled with alcohol. Some of Voldemort's followers got ragingly drunk before missions.

"What's your name?" he bit out in a cajoling voice.

She didn't reply. She couldn't, she was crying too hard.

"He asked what your name was," another cloaked man said, taking a threatening step forward.

"Lindsey," was the tremulous, nearly incomprehensible reply.

"Oh? What school do you go to, Lindsey?"

"H-h-hog–"

"What was that?"

She attempted to speak again, but she could only manage to stutter, saliva leaking out of the corners of her mouth.

"Hogwarts," I supplied, head spinning. "She was trying to say Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts, eh?" the Death Eater answered. He looked around meaningfully at the others. "What are the odds, boys? Your parents – both Muggles?"

She nodded after a moment.

"And how old are you, Lindsey?"

"Tw-twelve."

"Twelve? Are you sure?"

She nodded frantically.

The man responded by placing his wand at the point where her blouse met her bare skin and muttering an incantation. The blouse split down the middle, revealing a white chest and pink, budding breasts. A child's chest, little more. She squirmed now as his intention crystallized itself, uttering a small, desperate keen of panic.

The man stared at her for a good five seconds, and then his lip curled.

"Are you good at arithmetic, Lindsey?"

She bucked against him, trying for all the world to escape.

He leaned down, whispered so softly into her hair that I could barely hear him. "I'll bet even you can do this equation. Three men, three holes . . . perfect, don't you think?"

Either she was too young to understand or too shocked to even change expression.

"Well, what do you say?" the Death Eater asked his companions indulgently. "Shall we have a go?"

"She's too young, even for my taste," the one closest to me proclaimed simply. There was a general murmur of agreement from the others.

"Old Rosier will want her – he's always liked the young ones. Bring her to him," someone said casually.

"No," replied another. "He's busy with that woman out there."

"Regulus, you want a go? She's not much younger than you – perhaps you know her from school?"

Bile rose up in my throat, hot and thick. "Never seen her," I managed.

"Pity," the Death Eater said. "Well, have your way with her in any case. Just be sure to use the proper incantations on yourself beforehand – you don't want Muggle blood all over your skin. It causes rashes."

The man slammed the girl against the wall, hard, and dropped her suddenly. Her legs buckled without his support and she slid down the wall.

The three men left momentarily, muttering something about the house next door. On the way out, one of them said, "After you're finished with her, do what needs to be done, boy." He made a throat-slitting motion with his hand.

I stood for a good ten seconds, paralyzed, after they had gone. Then I made my way over to the shaking girl in the corner, curled up in a tight ball, trying desperately to hide her non-existent breasts from me.

I looked at her closely for the first time. She had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen.

Images came to me unbidden. Lily and James, the most high-profile couple at Hogwarts – a green-eyed Mudblood and a pureblood. I saw James, tweaking Lily's nose and laughing. James, swinging a squealing, giggling Lily into his arms. Interlaced fingers, soft kisses, everywhere together, and sometimes when they walked too near too many Slytherins, a subtle protectiveness in the way he wrapped his arm around her. I had assumed this behavior to be an unfair, unfounded prejudice, or some arrogant form of possessiveness that wouldn't have surprised me, coming from him. Now I understood. This green-eyed girl in front of me was no different from his Mudblood girlfriend. If Death Eaters ever got their hands on Lily Evans, James knew exactly what was at stake. He understood the consequences of failure more clearly than I'd ever comprehended the consequences of Voldemort's success.

James Potter was so far beyond me that it was sick.

I knew what he'd say to me, if he saw me right now. He'd laugh harshly, laugh right in my face. _What's wrong, you little prat? _he'd hiss. _Did you think that this was all some big heroic war drama_? _Did you think that Sirius and I were fighting to be cool or popular or powerful? Did you actually think that we got off on it? Look around, you little shit. Do you get it yet? _

I had lied to the others when I'd said I didn't know Lindsey. I never forgot a face, and I had seen her on occasion, walking through halls, laughing with friends, traipsing across the grounds. I hadn't known her name, but I knew _her. _She was every twelve year-old girl at Hogwarts: ambitious as hell, eager to learn, whispering to her housemates at night about her latest crush. _He's Slytherin?_ her friends would jeer. _You can't date a Slytherin; they're dangerous! _

_They're all bark, no bite, _she would perhaps reply confidently, with a giggle. _Not as cruel as they're made out to be . . . so dark and mysterious!_

I dropped to my knees; she shrunk back further, eyes squeezed shut tightly.

Was this real? Was she real? I stretched my hand toward her to verify that I wasn't dreaming some horrible, repugnant dream. She flinched away violently, as if from flame. I snatched my hand back. Stupid. Idiotic.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

It rushed out of my mouth like wind through trees, an utterance so profound, so fragile, that it didn't sound like a human voice.

Glass shattered. I smelled smoke on the air. A female scream rent the stagnant haze. The girl whimpered in fear and recognition.

"My _wife! _Please, that's my wife . . ."

I didn't want the girl to hear her mother die, didn't want the girl to know that her father had watched, so I started talking loudly over the noise, spewing jumbled, fragmented thoughts, anything to distract her from her mother's screams.

"I didn't know, when I came. I didn't know . . . I swear I didn't know that James was right, that Sirius was right. You look so much like Lily. So beautiful. Same hair, same eyes – so much like her. She was the one who got me thinking, maybe Mubloods did have brains – she's a Mudblood but she thinks when she speaks – _really _thinks. She was the one who got me thinking, maybe light doesn't have a meaning, maybe it's just there to illuminate faces like hers. Maybe light – maybe it isn't anything at all."

I fell silent, and the only sound that remained was the crackling of flame. Was it near? I neither knew nor cared.

"You're Regulus," she said tremulously. "Regulus Black."

I drew in a sharp breath, pierced. Did I know, from that moment on, what I would have to do?

"How do you–"

"That man said your name. E-everyone knows you. Sixth year. Top of your class."

Panic fluttered into my consciousness, the strongest emotion I'd felt all night.

"You can't know my name," I hissed.

"I'm sorry." Her chin trembled and she finally looked up. "I won't tell . . . pinkie promise."

I nodded numbly, mutely.

"You're not like them, are you?"

"No," I answered, voice cracking. I was worse. So much worse. What if she blabbed, or someone put her under Veritaserum or the Imperius? Even a memory charm could be broken. If she talked, they would all find out what I really was.

"Can you help me, Regulus?"

If she walked into her living room, she'd see her mother lying dead in a pool of blood and semen, she'd see her father's neck snapped in three different places. All her neighbors were dead too. Half of her house had been burned to the ground. The rest would collapse momentarily.

"Rosier!" a man's voice called over the flames. "In here!"

"They're coming back," Lindsey whispered, face whitening. "Please – Regulus – I _can_ do arithmetic. Please don't let them come back here. Help me."

"You can't know my name," I repeated, as the footsteps quickened, grew louder.

"Help me!" Her voice had risen to a high-pitched wail. I wrenched off my mask and looked straight into her desperate eyes; I owed her that much, at least.

"Give me your hand," I said calmly.

Hope filled her lucid green eyes – blind faith in a boy who was her worst enemy. Rosier appeared in the doorway. I heard his shallow, lusty breathing behind me.

She grasped my hand and focused dead centre on my eyes.

"Avada Kedavra," I whispered.

Killing someone is not the same as watching someone die. When you kill, you _feel _the death, like a light going out. That simple. That passionless. Something there, just outside of you, vital and pulsing. Then nothing.

There was no slowing of motion, no moral anguish, no strangled gurgle, no indication at all that she had died. Just a little girl slumped on the floor, hand still warm in my own.

I suppose I remember Rosier jerking me up, shaking me, something about why'd you kill her and what a waste and I'm not a necrophiliac, you know, I like them live and squirming and then stumbling outside as the walls crashed down around me and thinking maybe the world had ended. Fire panic human refuse laughter screams. A face contorted forever in frozen horror, bloody mangled limbs and a flickering lamppost which threw the scene in and out of focus.

I Apparated somehow, with a vagueness of intent that should have splinched me.

I landed feebly in a pile of freshly fallen snow outside of Grimmauld Place. Snow seeped through my torn clothing but I felt nothing as I opened the door, climbed up to my room, sat down on the bed.

Threw up abruptly, all over my robes and boots. Cleaned it up. Stumbled into the bathroom. Brushed my teeth. Threw up again.

Shaking. I remember trembling so bad, freezing cold. Colder than I'd ever been in my life.

I fell asleep at some point, slept for twenty-four hours and probably wouldn't have woken up if not for Kreacher, come to see if I was still alive.

I read the newspaper. Forty-one dead. Forty-one dead, it played through my head over and over again. That little 'one' right next to the 'four' was entirely my fault, and it seemed like the most important number I'd ever read in my life. That tiny black smudge of ink was my fault. I couldn't make it go away.

Right then I learned what it was like to make a mistake, one so big that it can't be forgotten and it can't be erased. But you can try. You _will _try. You'll shove it to the back of your brain, hard, and you'll keep it pinned there until something innocent crosses your path – a flower in a girl's hair, the smell of smoke, the tinkling of a bell – and you're done for. The memory rips through you like an animal unleashed, made more ferocious by its long captivity.

And it has grown. The wound has festered in the back of your mind and it isn't a scab anymore, it's a lesion and it taints almost everything you ever knew.

Eventually they forgive you. They all forgive you. But you will never forgive yourself.

So you seal it tight, make sure the container is air-proof, and forget about it. And all the while it is growing, feeding on itself so that the next time you dare open it – well, you cannot, _will _not, open it ever again. But every once in a while you hear a rhythmic thump-thump-thump in your chest, and it's the beast, thumping against its air-proof container, reminding you that it is always, and will always, be waiting.

* * *

After that, I went through the motions like an afflicted creature, sleeping through classes and waking in my dreams, the same dreams over and over and over again.

Words had no meaning. Language broke down. Sound became mere vibration, a never-ending, tuneless serenade. Every sound has a frequency, every single one, and I could identify them on the spot. A sickly cough– that was an A-flat, 440 hertz. The cadence of a quill scratching on parchment, F-sharp, 390 hertz. The din in the Great Hall, that struck a minor chord, if you listened long enough. Everyone sound has a frequency – every single one.

Faces slid in and out of my vision, slippery, one indistinguishable from another. The world became a sort of spectral kaleidoscope, greens and greys and blues and A-flats and arpeggios all blurring into one another until sometimes I couldn't even figure out where colour ended and sound began.

At the centre of it all, an idea. The idea swirled around and around in my head like a poem so intent that it didn't even make sense.

Does it sound like I went crazy? I did, for a few months. They have a clinical name for it, I think. Post-traumatic stress disorder mixed with a healthy dose of psychosis, cognitive hallucinations, and sleep paralysis.

Perhaps it seems like I overreacted. But it came down to this. Everything I'd ever known or been taught or been raised with – Pureblood supremacy, social Darwinism, hatred for Muggles – this was the reality of it. This was what I'd given my life to, this was the conviction I'd been faking all along. Every time I uttered the word 'Mudblood,' every time I preached Voldemort's doctrine, this was what it _meant_. It meant a half-naked little girl holding my hand as I killed her, eyes hopeful even in death.

I wasn't sure why I'd killed her. Had it been because I'd finally realised that death would be more merciful to her than life, or was it because I was afraid she'd tell people who I was, a pathetic coward that didn't know a thing about war or morality? Or was it for another reason, one more unspeakable? Had I liked watching her die? It wasn't just the not knowing. It was that my whole world fell down like a house of cards. Impossibly fragile.

So I cracked up. Colours and sounds and frequencies were all I could process for weeks. A whole part of my brain shut down. I could understand the relationships between chords and colours without thinking, but I couldn't string two words together, or wrap my head around the idea of time. Hours seemed like minutes, seconds like months. I took up piano and painting because they were the only things that made any sense. They called me a musical and artistic prodigy on top of all my other honours. That seemed to solidify it: Regulus Black, the best bloody thing since the opposable thumb.

I don't remember days, now, or weeks. I don't know how many passed before I came to. Only one memory stands out from the blur of colour and sound that comprised my memory of those months. Her funeral.

Of course there had to be a funeral at Hogwarts, commemorating the loss of a brilliant, ambitious, and promising young student.

The candlelight vigil was to be held at dawn, because dawn had been her favorite part of the day. I lay awake most of the night, hoping that I would lose consciousness by the time it started. But as the sky paled, I gave up on sleep and rose from my bed.

Students clustered sleepily in the halls, sad and tired and a little bit scared. The entire scene took on the quality of an impressionist painting, blurry faces lit by golden light, blue shadows and greyness, greyness all around. I stopped in the doorway of the Great Hall and took in one hundred flickering candles like bright daubs of paint on a grey canvas. I can't remember one single face.

When the candles began to swirl together, one light and a hundred thousand patches of darkness, I stumbled away, disoriented.

Somehow, instead of going to the funeral afterwards, I found myself sitting on the edge of a balcony in the Astronomy Tower, scrutinizing the landscape below. The sun rose behind the clouds and lit the snow a pale, rosebud pink. It rained, warm rain for February, and I swear that in the sunlight the rain came down in pastel colours, pink and cerulean and pale yellow and lavender and colours I'd never even seen before, featherlike in the predawn stillness. The lack of sound made me wonder if I was dreaming.

If the Great Hall had been a Renoir, daubs of colour and clarity, this was Rembrant, light and shadow colliding like titans.

I once read a Muggle poem that described light as heavenfall. You know, like rainfall, particles pouring from heaven onto the earth. Light drenching objects and activating pigment, colour saturating the earth like snow.

Heavenfall. I liked the idea.

I realize now that atop that spire, I was waiting for something. I liked the idea of heaven raining down on me; I liked the idea of judgement, of retribution for what I'd done. I was pleading for punishment.

Before that day, I'd never believed or disbelieved God or angels or heaven, because I hadn't seen evidence to the contrary. The only evidence I'd heard of that confirmed the existence of angels was the works of ancient Muggle sculptors like Michelangelo. These artists had sculpted wings on humans so naturally that it was as if they'd _seen _the creatures themselves. It was the only way you could turn marble to flight, if you'd seen a real angel and captured it in the stone.

Any kind of angel I wanted to believe in would have punished me for what I had done, made me suffer at least as much as she had in her last moments of life. If heaven didn't save people like her and smite people like me, I didn't want heaven to exist.

Punishment. I craved punishment, but all I found was warm, silent, pastel coloured rain, Rembrant and Renoir and Monet and Michelangelo blurring together until the tears finally fell from my eyes, down the stone turrets and past the windows of the flickering Great Hall, frozen before they reached the ground.

* * *

_Only an angel, after all, can rebel against God. _

– Gaarder


End file.
